


Some Sin for Nothing

by ExorcisingEmily, Mrstserc



Series: Before the Fall Verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Gen, Hate Crimes, Homophobic Language, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, References to Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:32:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExorcisingEmily/pseuds/ExorcisingEmily, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrstserc/pseuds/Mrstserc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters and Cas head to San Antonio, the most haunted city in the US, after a phone call from an acquaintance of their father's. What kind of monster is killing homeless people and leaving body parts in a downtown park? </p><p>Casefic from the Before the Fall Verse. Established background Destiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Sin For Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first collaborative fic, with the talented Mrstserc (who happens to be an experienced professional news reporter). This one will be a single "episode," a casefic following the events of "Before the Fall," so Cas is along for the ride and there's established Destiel (I recommend reading that one for the 'Season Premier' before this).

 

_Some sin for gold, some sin for shame  
_ _Some sin for cash, some sin for gain  
_ _Some sin for wine, some sin for pain  
_ _But I ain't gonna be the fool who's gonna have to  
_ _Sin for nothin'  
_ _Nothing at all._

\- AC/DC, "Some Sin For Nothin'"

* * *

The night is dark and the area under the trees is darker, and even in autumn the press of scrub and trees insulates from the noise of the surrounding city. The last of the families holding a child's birthday party at the picnic tables left hours ago, shuffling their reluctant, whining children back to their cars and into their homes, sticky with sweets and petulantly clutching their toys. He waited, watching the last of the civilians clear his area: it seems like he won't have to wait much longer. 

Brackenridge officially closed at eleven, but many of the area homeless find shelter in unlikely places within the 340 acres of wild parkland nestled in central San Antonio. And so far this year, three have already disappeared from this park--that they know of. They're busily ducking the attention of cops, but he's here now, and he's paying attention.

The hunter frowns thoughtfully as a petite woman in stained layers of clothing leaves the jogging path, muttering incoherently to herself as she ascends into the undergrowth. Crumbled rock crunches under her feet for a few yards, the roots of sage and rosemary make trip lines on the dry soil that catch at the peeling rubber soles of her battered shoes. Higher on the incline are accidental footholds in the rocks and hand holds made from overhanging and untrustworthy branches of live oak and pecan trees. He watches her from a distance as she hauls herself farther off of the beaten trail, her matted hair catching on the underbrush until she pulls free and out of sight.

The city's park police don't like to broadcast the news of the missing women; it’s bad for tourist business, and the Alamo City economy thrives on bringing in millions of visitors each year. And after all—the disappearance of transients and drug addicts isn't news.

Temperate and semi-arid, with easy access from two main interstates, San Antonio attracts those who've fallen down on their luck from neighboring states, and Brackenridge draws them in from across San Antonio. The spring-fed river welling up in the park ensures access to fresh water, the untamed wilderness off of the paths allows them to escape authorities and well-intentioned humanitarians alike, and they’ve beaten a web of dangerous footpaths in that allows them to traverse the downtown areas for food. More than anything, the park provides dark spaces to hide and an insulated environment, and it’s not just the homeless that have noticed it.

Bats flit around the street lamps outlining the park, snatching insects and making fluttering shadows across the ground. Above, the scrabbling of the homeless woman's climb sends loose soil and stones rattling down, the sound carrying in the still air.

Live bait. He couldn’t have planned this better if he tried. The hunter hunkers down and waits to see if the monster will respond.

 

* * *

 

_San Antonio Express News_

**TATTOOED BODY PARTS FOUND IN BRACKEN PARK**

San Antonio Police said Tuesday the tattooed body parts found in Brackenridge Park near the pavilion belong to a caucasian male, not any of the three local women who have gone missing within the last year. The body parts were first discovered by a group of Japanese tourists who were visiting the recently open nature area.

"Based on the condition of the body parts, they likely had not been there long and might have washed into the terrain during recent flash flooding," SAPD Information Officer Paul Gonzalez. Authorities reportedly sent DNA samples from the body parts to the Texas Department of Public Safety in Austin for Human Identification.

Community leaders have accused the police department of not committing sufficient resources to solving the disappearances of the three local women; Cara Springs, 28, who went missing in January, Patricia Johnson, 32, in May, and Linda Sanchez, 25, in September.  

 

* * *

 

Dean Winchester is walking the fine line between being pleasantly intoxicated and downright drunk, and starting to tip farther to the drunk side with every successive minute. Turned to face the room, Sam watches the entire process out of the corner of his eye with his elbows resting on the bar, smirking to himself as what had started out as a 'scientific experiment' evolves into a pissing match between his brother and his best friend, barreling on without his participation. Neither Dean nor Cas have noticed that Sam deliberately stopped keeping pace.

Their shot glasses hit the bar together, just a hair off from being in unison as Castiel's half-tips before he rights it again, his hand-eye coordination beginning to suffer. 

"Too astringent."

"You said that about the bourbon."

"No, I said the bourbon was too . . ."

"Pungent." Sam supplies helpfully, trying to tamp down the laughter threatening to call their attention back to his own drinking habits. They're the evening's entertainment for him, he doesn't want to risk them stopping _now_ when it's getting funnier as the night wears on. Dean's obnoxiously, inherently competitive--something that's started one or two stupid wrestling matches, and a foot (or car) race or two in Sam's life. Castiel, meanwhile, is mulishly stubborn. The two idiots deserve each other. And the hangover they're going to have tomorrow.

Sam's Burger Joint is a dive, but it’s a popular one. The walls are lined with pictures of bands, singers, and license plates from every state, and every burger is branded with the place's name (in case you missed it on the neon sign, visible from the freeway and possibly from space). Outside the bar, a converted warehouse acts as a popular music venue, and even without paying to get near the stage the volume is ear-bleeding, the cover band dominating the stage exuberantly declaring that they’re going off the rails on a crazy train.

It’s just the kind of place Dean likes, right down to the bacon cheeseburgers of which half of Castiel's is still wrapped in the greasy paper, and Sam is cadging off of Dean's leftover fries, dipping them in his guacamole. In the morning, when the hangover cripples both of his fellow hunters and slows down their progress on the investigation, Sam will 'helpfully' point out that they should have finished their dinner before they got into the drinking contest.

Both of them will deny there had been a contest.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay. Fine. You turn out to like anything froo-froo, though, you're walking back to the motel."

"Maybe they have Purple Nurples. _You_ liked them. That's a manly drink, right?" Sam smirks at his brother over his own beer and the bartender laughs quietly as she plucks away the discarded glasses, only barely audible over the music. At least _she_ thinks he’s funny.

"They always like this?" She asks, leaning her hip against the bar as she swipes it down with a dingy rag, and Sam lets himself be distracted. He's not a lech like his brother has always been, but Sam hasn't been able to help but notice that the bartender's jeans ride low on her hips despite her belt, showing the indentation at the small of her back, and now she flashes him a smile with dimples that matches it. With her focused attention suddenly on him, Sam turns in his stool and tips his head to get his hair out of his eyes, getting a better feel for her.

Texan drawl. Pretty. Blonde, too, with tan skin and natural curls framing her face outside of her ponytail. If Dean even thinks about trying to move in on this girl, Sam's going to point out that dragging Cas out for dinner, drinking and music counts as a _date_. Obnoxiously. In front of Cas, the entire bar, and the blonde. Even if he gets his ass kicked for it later.

"Those guys? I don't really know them. They just kinda follow me around."

Dean leans in his seat, throwing an arm around Sam's shoulder and reaching up to rumple his hair obnoxiously, addressing the bartender in a voice loud enough to carry. Sam understands Dean well enough to know he's trying to get revenge for the Purple Nurple comment, and he shrugs his brother's arm off and glares warningly. "He's so cute, ain't he? My little brother, forgetting I'm the driver, and he can walk too if _he_ keeps trying to disown me. Dean." He offers his name with a winning crooked grin.

"Laurie." The bartender responds with another cheery smile, and a laugh. "And you're not driving anywhere tonight, cowboy." Plunking the next drink on the menu down in front of Dean and Cas, she shakes her head. Castiel eyes the drink before him suspiciously until Dean drops his arm from around Sam and leans towards the angel instead, unable to back down from the challenge and determined to find out Cas's drink preferences, continuing his newest hobby of figuring out Cas's likes and dislikes in his humanity.

After a moment making the rounds, passing out drinks to the other patrons, Laurie slides back over in front of Sam, and there's a good chance that he's in. "So, the big little brother. Got a name? You sound local, you from around here?"

"Sam, ironically. Probably part of why my brother decided we had to stop in." The younger Winchester offers with a sheepish shrug and a boy-next-door smile, holding his own burger up indicatively, his name seared across the top of the bun with the bar's logo, also emblazoned across her chest on the t-shirt. "And no, just passing through." Dean's influenced him too much over the years, he's using the same lines, establishing himself as short-term for her consideration with a smile. After his beer she serves him up iced tea regularly, cloyingly sweet and on the house for the 'designated driver.' He palms the keys to the Impala, tucking them into his jacket pocket after a few more flirtatious questions between refills and set changes in the concert outside.

Laurie is a law student at Saint Mary's with a wicked sense of humor, and she seems to know exactly what she wants. Dean and Cas can _walk_ back to the motel room the three of them are sharing. 

 

* * *

 

Dean's freckles are distracting.

Lit by the low-hanging bar lights and the bright pops of neon from advertisements for the various alcoholic beverages that Castiel has now imbibed, each in turn, those freckles seem to resist the light that bathes Dean's face, but more than that they are _not where Castiel put them._

He doesn't realize he's said this last part aloud until Dean's looking at him incredulously, green eyes bright and reflective after trying to keep up with him in drinks.

(Castiel is significantly more inebriated than Dean, but he refuses to admit it—he once drank an entire liquor store, he _can_ hold his alcohol, he's certain of it.)

Freckles have merged, new ones have joined the familiar constellations that pattern across his nose and his cheekbones, some have settled into the fine lines that now decorate his face, taking him from being merely a pretty boy into an attractive man, and Castiel's syllables are blurred around the edges and part of that was aloud again, though he's not sure which part. This is potentially troublesome, as much of what he's thinking has been classified as 'you don't just _talk_ about that' and Dean is quite particular about maintaining those social mores.

After a moment Dean grins, and it's good. He is welcome to be a happy drunk, so long as he's not a sad one. They've all had too much sadness in their lives.

"You're a _lightweight_ , Cas." Dean declares with relish, and drops money on the bar to cover their bill before dragging Castiel up with him, his competition finished and Dean as the self-declared winner: it'd been enough of a blow to his pride when Castiel eventually proved to be better with a blade than he is, he _refuses_ to accept that the man who'd been a sober rule-abiding angelic-choirboy virgin for the millions of years until he met them could outdrink him as a human. "C'mon, Sammy. We need to get Cas to b. . ." His brother is gone, and in his place at the bar is a note written on napkin, apparently placed under Dean's elbow earlier.

_Don't wait up._

The blonde is gone, too, and. . . patting himself down, leaving Castiel to brace himself against the bar, Dean swears under his breath.

"Son of a _bitch._ "

It’s a mile walk, at night, drunk, and with a drunken angel stumbling along in his wake muttering under his breath about handsome men and disobedient freckles. He’s going to _kill_ Sam for taking his car.

"We're armed." Castiel reminds Dean, his voice a whiskey-soaked rumble, as if it's just the safety of walking in an unknown city at night that is worrisome, and Dean rolls his eyes as they make it out of the parking lot and cross beneath the freeway overpass.

"You never spent much time in Texas, did you Cas? _Everyone's_ armed. I just don't want to have to drag your drunk ass that far. If you puke on me, you're sleeping on the couch." Cas hadn't needed to learn the puppy dog eyes from Sam. They both come by it naturally, the earnest hopeful sad-eyed look, and Dean falls for it every damned time. Sighing, he relents and hauls Cas's arm around his shoulder and keeps them walking, cinching his arm around Castiel's waist before he can stumble on the cracked and uneven sidewalk, ignoring the itch between his shoulder blades that makes him feel as if he’s being judged for it. Just helping a drunk friend out. That’s all anyone will see, as they lean into each other. "Fine. Just don't puke on me."

Castiel makes it until morning before it all comes up again.

Stretched out along a bedspread patterned in gold, purple, red, blue, brown and green southwestern style quilting, Dean throws his arm over his eyes and grimaces as Sam hits the switch, flooding the room with searing light. The younger Winchester then demonstrates his unique skill at crinkling the paper bags in his hands, jingling the car keys, and stomping his gargantuan feet while slamming the motel room door open and closed again, all in head-splitting enthusiasm, and with undisguised glee and uninhibited volume as he addresses his brother.

"Alright, up. Dressed. It is officially after noon now, you've had enough time to sleep it off."

Dean grunts and lowers his arm enough to glare at his brother without lifting his head from where he has stolen Castiel's pillow with his absence. "You stole my car."

"Yes, I did. Nice walk?" Sam ducks the pillow that sails at his head with ease, and turns to look at his brother, flashing him an unrepentant grin as he sets the paper bags down on the table and grabs his laptop case. "Where's Cas?"

"The angel's still praying to the porcelain god." Closing his eyes again, Dean flops back down on the remaining pillow, smirking to himself at his own joke. Castiel's voice grounds out from behind the open bathroom door, hoarse and irritated.

"That's still not funny, Dean."

Cracking one eye open, Dean looks to Sam to weigh in, and his brother struggles to refrain from laughing as he tilts sideways to peer at the fallen angel kneeling on the linoleum floor, looking as if he’s considering being ill again, an arm braced on the rim of the tub. "It's a little funny, Cas."

If Castiel's grumbled response qualifies as communication, it isn't in any language the boys know.

With a snort of laughter, Dean finally rolls to his feet, stretching to pop his back and grabbing his shirt from where it was flung across the nightstand, as if determined to prove he handles a hangover better than Castiel too. In the bathroom he steps over Castiel, who glowers at him from the floor, as he brushes his teeth only half listening to his brother while doing his best, most obnoxious impersonation of someone without a splitting headache just to exacerbate Castiel's.

"Don't worry about it, Cas. You didn't do too badly. You just shouldn't go up against an Olympic medalist in your first trial run, y'know? Dean's been training his whole life for this." Sam smirks at his computer screen without looking away when Dean points at him around the edge of the bathroom door frame, speaking around a froth of toothpaste.

"I don't know if I should thank you for the compliment or kick your ass for calling me a drunk." The words are slurred by the toothbrush, and he gargles (loudly and obnoxiously) and rinses his mouth out before relenting, offering a hand down to Castiel and hauling the man to his feet with a wink, pushing him towards the sink to get himself cleaned up. Without waiting for Castiel, Dean paces out of the bathroom, now back in the game.

Without looking away from the screen, Sam hands a coffee up to his brother as Dean walks past to pull up his own chair at the room's rickety motel table, their own post-drinking routine well established and requiring no discussion. "Okay, so hit me. You got your OCD itinerary planned out?"

Sam doesn't refute the comment about his own habits, instead pushing a stack of notes to Dean. "We probably need to split up today. Lot of ground to cover. There's the 'remains' we need to hit up at the morgue." Dean raises two fingers from the side of his coffee cup, volunteering. "The homeless shelter that put out the information about the missing women, we should talk to the director and some of the other homeless, see what they have to say . . ."

"That's got you written all over it."

Sam looks up from the computer, squinting at his brother inquisitively as Dean dives into the greasy paper bag on the table, pulling out aluminum-foil wrapped food and eyeing it suspiciously, only looking up to offer explanation when his brother doesn't respond immediately.

"Sounds like sensitive crap."

"Nice, Dean." Rolling his eyes, Sam looks back at the computer screen. "Then we've got a meeting with the hunter that pegged us out here, Ruben Rivera. He's being released from the hospital today, says he'll catch up with us at the meeting of. . ." Sam turns the computer screen now to Dean, trying to maintain an even expression "...the San Antonio Paranormal Investigators. S. A. P. I."

Pulling the computer closer, Dean sets the food down unwrapped (his stomach is roiling, too, though you wouldn't tell it to look at him) and snorts as his eyes scan the page. "A local 'non-lucrative' organization. I like that. It's like an accidental non-profit. 'Proud owners of a money pit.' But c'mon. Who names their group 'Sappy.' Bunch of weirdos, that's who. They all hunters?"

"Only the one, far as I can tell, but they and the. . ." Turning the computer back, he swaps pages and pushes it back to Dean again. ". . . Paranormal Investigators of San Antonio seem to canvas the area, recording ghosts and checking out stories, along with a few other clubs. "

"What town needs _multiple_ groups of Ghost Facers?"

Sam shrugs, stretching his legs out beneath the table to push another chair out for Cas as he joins them, rolling a foil-wrapped breakfast taco in front of him. It leaves a thin line of orange grease across the table before stopping in front of Cas, who stares in revulsion as he slowly unwraps it. "I dunno. San Antonio, apparently. I mean, there's something to be said about it. City's down on record as being the most haunted place in the entire U.S."

"Great. So we've got spooks everywhere, and some sorta monster likes to snatch up bums and spit out pieces. That's. . . that's just awesome. We gonna have to talk to all these yahoos?"

"Like I said. Busy afternoon."

Grease drips from the edges of the foil, having saturated the tortilla long before Castiel received it, and the pungent smell of egg hits the air as he opens the tortilla. Inside seems to be a mix of sickeningly orange and yellow and white and pink mush, chorizo and egg and cheese with chunks of potato, but it looks like nothing insomuch as it does vomit.

Castiel lurches from the table again and skids back into the bathroom as Sam punches the air in his success, before turning an expectant look on his brother. Meeting that challenge, Dean picks up his own breakfast taco and takes a wolfish bite, ignoring the sound of Castiel dry-heaving in the bathroom and speaking around the mess of food in his mouth before forcing it down with the coffee.

"You're gonna have to try harder than that with me, Sammy."

This is what love and affection looks like with the Winchesters, on the good days. Teasing, mockery, obnoxiousness, and pranks. Perhaps Cas should have considered what he was signing up for when he chose their life.

(He would have chosen them anyway, regardless. But he may never drink again.)


	2. Chapter 2

The Haven for Hope campus looks more like an elementary school than a homeless shelter, with overly cheerful murals splashed across the walls of the administrative building. As the Impala drives off, Dean behind the wheel, Sam scrutinizes his surroundings carefully and looks to see what the vibrant paint hopes to hide. The parking lot is filled mostly with battered economy cars and junkers, and there’s a police substation across the lot from the main building, nearly sharing space with the shelter as if offering a threat to those seeking shelter to keep them in line. Sam’s been on the wrong side of the law too often himself not to note it, and he straightens unconsciously and checks his identity. Fake ID, business cards to match, and he fishes a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket.

Today, he’s Sam Cooke: because Dean thinks he’s funny. Sometimes Sam agrees though he’ll never encourage his brother by admitting it, and this identity makes him roll his eyes fondly. They never should have surfed through the list of bizarre rock star deaths. Not every man could claim to have been shot to death while wearing a single shoe, a blazer, and nothing else. Of course it appealed to his brother's sense of humor.

"Sam Cooke to see Monica Garza," he offers a smile to the receptionist, harmless and professional, and then slips into the small waiting area.

Bulletin boards near the empty alcove are wallpapered with information about job opportunities holding signs for businesses, large posters from service organizations and churches offering employment, and job training facilities and libraries are listed neatly. Sam’s eyes rove the board looking for some clue on their hunt, until his attention is instead grabbed by one of the posters on the neighboring board. Among flyers about substance abuse and health clinics, a ledger sized poster stands out above a rack of brochures for ailments: Understanding Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Causes and risk factors include disasters such as flood or fire, events like assault, domestic abuse, prison time, rape, terrorism, war.

Or Hell, though clearly that didn’t make the list.

The symptoms grab him, and he keeps reading silently. Flashbacks, nightmares, emotional "numbing," difficulty concentrating, startling easily with exaggerated responses, hyper vigilance, irritability, outbursts of anger, increased alcohol or drug use.

It sounds like his childhood, Sam thinks, feeling a fleeting sympathetic pang for his father. Worse, it sounds like everything about Dean that’s been worrying him for the last few years. He folds a brochure in half and sticks it in his pocket as the receptionist tells him Ms. Garza is ready for him.

Monica Garza, a petite Hispanic woman in her 30s with bottle blonde hair, meets Sam in the hallway and leads him to an empty armchair in her small office, taking a similar chair near him. The office door lists her title as Supervisor of Case Management, and her walls are decorated with a diploma from The University of Texas at San Antonio and pictures of her, the city mayor, and others at the groundbreaking in 2005.

The seating arrangement has them both sitting comfortably, like two people in a coffee house instead of an office, and Sam figures that's deliberate on her part, trying to set a friendly atmosphere by not putting a desk between her and her guest. Yet after a brief introduction, Monica, as she insists he call her, gets right to business.

"Why is a California news organization interested in the deaths of homeless women in San Antonio?"

Sam smiles shyly and looks up at her with sincerity shining from his hazel eyes, and maybe it's wrong that he can lie so convincingly. "Well we're actually a web-based news organization. As for the missing women, it just seems that . . . if three college students or young professionals were missing, it would be on CNN and all over the news. My article isn't specifically about your case, although that's important, it's about how society treats the homeless as disposable."

Monica visibly animates over that remark, and it's obvious that Sam hit the exact right note to build a connection to her. "It's an attitude we see far too often, yes. Haven for Hope is trying to change that here in San Antonio. We assist both with the residents, including entire families, who are getting the help they need to overcome the setbacks they face, and clients who use the campus services but remain homeless. There are people who don't choose to stay, but come in regularly for showers or outreach services, like the courtyard program where they can get something to eat. That's what these three women were part of, but I don't really know how many are missing. Cara, Patricia, and Linda were just the ones I could prove."

Sam is diligently taking notes, and gestures with the notebook with his next question, letting her see concern for the wellbeing of her clients. "Well, how big of a pool of possible missing is there?"

"We have fewer than 2,000 residents who actually live at Haven for Hope," Monica explains. "But there are at least 30,000 homeless people in San Antonio and they're mostly transient, so even that's a guess. Eighty percent of the non-resident homeless have addictions or some type of mental illness. They live in their cars, the parks, abandoned buildings. Many of them are criminals who feed their addictions on stolen money, staying in hotels when they aren't flat broke. So... I wish I could give you a solid number. No one should be able to go missing without a trace, but we're not the first city where people have preyed on homeless expecting no one would miss them."

Sam winces as he pushes back his long strands of silky hair and makes notes. Living in cars and abandoned buildings, illegal income, transient, even the alcohol use. It's a bit disturbing that he, Dean, and Cas would fit right into that profile. Great, now he and his whole family are homeless people with PTSD . . . and always have been. 

"If you were to take a guess, how many of your clients go missing, not just move on?" Sam asks.

"One or two a week," Monica says immediately. "But it's only those women who I've talked to personally, who were regular in attending meetings or workshops, that I've been able to get the police to take reports on. I have one woman, Christina Lopez, who I was supposed to meet with before you . . . .she just didn't show. Who knows what happened to her."

When they finish up with the interview, Sam walks outside to wait for Dean, frowning to himself as his eyes follow the line of cars creeping by on the overpass in the distance. Would be worth bringing up PTSD to his older brother, or if it would trying to talk about anything just piss him off the anything personal frequently does? Worse, would undo all the good he's seen in Dean since Cas has joined in the hunt and in that unspoken relationship they’re building?

The purr of the Impala interrupts the thought as Dean eases her over to the sidewalk where his little brother is standing, enjoying the appreciative looks the car gets from bystanders.

As Sam slides into the shotgun seat, he cocks his head until he places the music; his brother is mouthing along the words to the Guns N Roses song piping through the car speakers. _"She's got eyes of the bluest skies as if they thought of rain. I hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain."_

Sam looks sideways at his brother and smirks, unable to help himself. "Thinking of anyone in particular?"

"Shut up," grumbles Dean, snapping off the cassette player.

"We gotta talk about it sometime," Sam offers his brother a hopeful look, and maybe this time it'll work. It's been weeks since the last time Dean shot down the conversation.

"No, we don't, Samantha. There's plenty of things that just don't need to be talked to death about, alright? Plus, let's just keep all our discussing 'til we meet back up with Cas so we don't have to go over anything twice," Dean's shut down, jaw bunched and teeth clenched though he is trying to keep his reluctance off his face, and Sam knows the only thing they'll be talking about then is the case. "Two minutes and we'll be at the park."

Sam's finger strokes the PTSD pamphlet, remembering every time he has tried to get his stubborn, pig-headed, ass of an older brother to open up. He wants to be able to _help_ Dean, but he realizes he never gets anything out of him by pushing.

"Okay. I'll wait. Sorry."

"Dude, you don't have to apologize." Dean says sounding amused. He pauses and looks Sam in the eye, and there's a great deal he's not saying in that as well. Dean’s not exactly used to uncertainty like this. The introduction of a third person into their day to day lives is a shake-up neither of them expected, and as little as Dean wants to talk about it, Dean's still harboring some concerns. "We okay?"

"For now," Sam answers.

 

* * *

 

Three bitter pills, two oblong, one round, and Castiel washes them down with the whiskey from the bottle before carefully tucking it back into its place within Dean's duffle bag. "Hair of the dog," Dean had called it when he tipped a portion of the liquor into Castiel's coffee, and Cas has grown just accustomed enough to humanity to accept that there are some idioms that he will never understand.

He is, however, quite familiar with headaches by now—his brief sojourn into Heaven had done little to cure him of his connection to his brothers and sisters that chases him throughout the day with visions of a war he had left them to, or the dreams and nightmares of his own choices that plague his sleep.

It's quiet in the motel room; the Winchesters loaded into the Impala and off on their own tasks, and while the silence is welcome it is also disquieting. He needs the distraction that the brothers provide, needs the human connection. It is a sign, though, and one that he quietly celebrates as he closes the turquoise motel door and clambers down the rickety staircase towards the walking trail into the parklands: the brothers have entrusted him to handle part of the investigation on his own. He's becoming a hunter and a part of the unit, not simply a liability.

(Granted, Dean's comments that Castiel would 'blend in best with the weirdos' rather than the police or the shelter call into question how well he's adapting to their life of assumed identities and casual deception, but he has a lifetime to learn.)

Children are just beginning to trickle into the fairway wedged between the Ranch Motel and the park, their laughter ringing out over the tinny music of the carousel. Cas quickens his pace to escape the noise and the afternoon sun, warm as summer despite the lateness of the year, for the cold and quiet of the trees. For being the scene of horrors, Brackenridge Park is surprisingly serene, live oak and mesquite trees pressing close to the wide track of the concrete pathways that snake through the land. Slowing his steps, Castiel lets himself breathe it in, feeling something in him relax that hasn't in days—it's either the freedom of it, or the medications taking hold. Either way, he needs this more often. He misses it.

There's not much quiet reflection to be found trapped in a car for eight hours a day (sometimes more) with Dean's discordant music blaring through the speakers, or shut into dark and musty motel rooms. Humanity is _confining,_ and even as well-intentioned as the boys' camaraderie is, it is overwhelming at times.

He'll adapt. He has to.

Following the maps scattered on wooden signposts throughout the park, he finds the P.I.S.A. group faster than he could have hoped for. It's not so much a "group," however, as a man enthusiastically scouring the area off of the park paths, with a college-aged young man carrying an EMF and following in his wake, taking notes.

George Mackey is a man who found a way to make what he loved into his career, and he has the air of someone who wouldn't care if he's judged for his beliefs. Castiel recognizes him from the portraits on the back of his books, two cheap small-publishing house paperbacks on hauntings within San Antonio, but in person his faded straw-colored hair is thinner and with his shirt tucked in his belt buckle presses in slightly on a pot-belly on his otherwise slim frame.

He offers an easy smile as Castiel steps off the path to join them, feet sure on the loose soil incline.

"Hey! I'm guessing you're Winchester's boy, right? Are you Dean or Sam?" There's no Texas twang to his voice, not even the fainter drawl of San Antonio—Chicago, perhaps—but Castiel is less concerned with that than the actions of the two men, his head canted to the side.

"I'm neither. I travel with them."

There's a pause after his stilted response, but Mackey's smile doesn't slip, though one eyebrow cocks slightly. In this, the Winchester boys were probably right—these are people used to 'weird' from their acquaintances. "Alright, well, good to meet you either way. What do I call you, then?"

"Cas. You may call me Cas. Why are you carrying EMFs? Nothing about what I've read on this situation indicates ghost or spirit presence."

"Spoken like a hunter. There are more things on this earth than you know, and we're only just scratching the surface of it." There's a brightness to Mackey's eyes, a belief that borders on religious faith, and Castiel recognizes it for what it is. He's seen the same look in the eyes of well-intentioned, but, for all intents and purposes, completely naïve spiritual leaders throughout time and history. This is a man who believes he can show the world some manner of Truth.

There's little arguing with true faith.

With a noncommittal grunt, Castiel shakes his head slightly and turns away. This is not the time to explain just how much more of the world he knows. Even men like this, the full truth would strain his understanding and do little but draw further attention to himself and the Winchesters. He has come a long way since proposing that they tell a police officer the truth in their hunt for Raphael.

This is a man of good intentions. Castiel will intervene before he brings himself to harm with his lack of understanding.

"This is where the last victim was taken from." It's not a question—Castiel's knowledge of computers is limited, but he read all the notes, sorted them, memorized the maps. Sam's research is thorough enough for his needs. Scanning the trees around them, he begins looking for signs.

He is not this kind of hunter. The broken branches may be from Mackey and his assistant's clumsy trek through the trees, or it may be significant to his search. He has no way of knowing, or differentiating between the scuffmarks on the ground. It's frustrating. Striding away from Mackey (his words are registered as noise only, meaningless for the moment), Castiel breaks to higher ground and turns in a circle, working on instinct.

He knows _monsters_.

Through the trees, he can see the white line of the concrete path, a stone obelisk at the head of the pathways, and the small parallel train-tracks for the novelty tourist trains he knows traverse the park from the zoo down the way. Eyes narrowing, he turns again, shaking his head dismissively. Regularly trod footpaths, likely shortcuts from one area of the park to the other, smaller trails from wildlife. A bridge.

Castiel's feet are moving before he consciously recognizes it, and he abandons his companions, letting those instincts guide him. Through the park, tributaries, creeks, runoff, drainage, they crisscross the area like canals, all leading back to the river at the heart of the park, running beneath the skin of the park as man-made caves. Turning slightly, he raises his voice to address Mackey, interrupting his commentary to the assistant, still dutifully taking notes.

"Caves. Are there any nearby caves?" It would stand to reason, given the landscape.

"Yeah, a lot of them. There's a good deal of local lore in there." If Mackey was put out at Castiel not listening to him, he doesn't show it. Now he has his attention again. "Five thousand year old civilization in these parts, mishmash of cultures going back millennia, it's why we're such a hotspot for the paranormal."

Bronze age. Frowning, Castiel turns his eyes back to the nearby footbridge, the sluggish water stagnating beneath it.

"Stay here." He doesn't wait for confirmation. His second-hand combat boots are sure on the terrain, trees and branches give him easy grips as he breaks away, giving up the higher ground to clamber down into the valleys and lowlands.

He's still following the broken stone walls of drainage and river runoff, hands braced on the wrought iron railing along a bridge as he leans over to look at the obvious signs of the homeless who have taken shelter underneath, with scorched circles of stones and discarded cans and bottles, when the Impala's tires rumble on the driving bridge behind him. Dean rolls down the driver's side window, an elbow hanging out as he speaks up to catch Castiel's attention, amusement apparent in his voice.

"Hey, stranger. Headed our way? Need a lift?"

Sam rolls his eyes in the passenger seat, muttering something that Castiel doesn't quite catch, but that earns him a finger raised off the wheel in warning—backing him from whatever topic his brother has decided is off limits now, or ensuring he doesn't interrupt Dean's attempts at humor.

"C'mon, Cas. Load 'em up. We'll swap info over food, I'm starving."

"Dean, you were just looking at a dismembered corpse at the _morgue_."

". . .Yeah, and?"

Sighing, Sam shakes his head, and Castiel doesn't comment as he braces a hand on the railing separating the footbridge from the driving bridge, leveraging himself over the barricade and slipping into his customary spot in the backseat of the Impala.

"I believe that the creature is using the drainage tunnels to traverse the park, and is preying on the homeless who shelter there." As greetings go, it's. . . well, it's not one. But it's to the point.

"Dude. Food first."

* * *

 

For some reason, the entire situation strikes Dean as morbidly humorous: sitting at a booth in an IHOP waiting for a group of Ghostfacers to finish up talking about their cold-spots and dreams and half-baked cockamamie encounters, eavesdropping from time to time from across the room. Then there's the fact that he and Sam are the ones with the half-done ties and business suits, remnants of their cover stories but looking like rumpled G-Men (they're too damned sexy to look like tax accountants), and Castiel is the one in flannel and denim with dirt on his face after investigating on a hunt.

Dean's reluctant to start talking about the case, and he knows why. Instead, he recreationally argues with Sam the relative sanity of a city where they had tacos for breakfast and pancakes for dinner, and watches Castiel try each flavor of syrup in turn with an expression more suited to complex mathematical theory than deciding between maple, butter-pecan, strawberry, and boysenberry, but his eyes brighten every time he looks up at the boys in conversation and he's loose and relaxed sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, and Dean catches him laughing again.

The trouble is that Dean is _happy_ , and if there's anything he's learned in life it's that happiness isn't to be trusted. At worst it's a lie or a delusion or a jinn-induced dream, and at best it's a soap bubble, fragile and waiting to pop the moment you reach for it. Hands wrapped around the cheap white ceramic mug of coffee, Dean gives himself twenty minutes to just enjoy the company of his brother and his best friend, time enough for Sam to finish off his disgusting looking egg white omelet and Cas to polish off the last of the pancakes, trying to soak up all of the syrup on his plate in the final bite. Twenty minutes, and he can't help but be the one to reach out and pop that bubble himself. It's easier if he's the one controlling when grim reality takes hold again.

When he prompts Sam to relate back what he learned, Dean watches it slide over them both again. Sam takes a deep breath and as he lets it out he's the Hunter again, born and raised, determined and used to the monsters in the dark. Castiel's mask of purpose slots back into place, expression draining away, unblinking gaze fixed on the brothers, and he's nearly inhuman in his stillness.

Another missing woman, and potentially hundreds more. Dean feels guilty already for allowing himself that brief peace, and now it gnaws at him, making his voice terse and business-like as he draws his cell phone out of his pocket and begins offering information to the others. "Well it ain't human, whatever it is down at the morgue. 'Least, I don't think it is, but they're chalking it up to decomp or genetic disorder." Pulling the camera phone pictures up, all three men lean in to look at the small screen as Dean flips through pictures.

"Loose skin, but it's grayish, bits of bone in there. Got some pulped internal organs, and remains of a chest cavity. There's some gunshot wounds, so I'm wondering if this is what went after the other hunter. . ." He tips his head at the SAPI group, where he knew one of the listening members is their hunter. "But it didn't stop the disappearances and something _else_ got to gnawing on this one." Dean clicks the button on his phone again, changing the picture, and he can _feel_ Castiel tense next to him in the booth. "And there's tattoos or markings on what's left of the chest, looks like. . ."

"Enochian." Castiel confirms, his voice a low rumble, and everything about him—from his complete lack expression, to the tension obvious in every line of his slim frame, to his white-knuckled grip on the handle of his coffee mug—broadcasts that he knows what he's looking at. That he understands something they don't.

The happiness of only minutes before has washed away.

Castiel lurches to his feet, coffee splashing onto the table as he releases it, and he only stops when Dean catches his wrist. Unable to pull Cas back to sitting down with them, he uses the grip to draw himself up instead, making Cas look him in the eye.

"Cas, what's wrong. What're we dealing with here?"

It costs Castiel something to look Dean in the eye at that moment, and his words are rough as sandpaper as he breaks away.

"An abomination."


	3. Chapter 3

"Son of a _bitch."_

Castiel is still allergic to a goddamn straight answer, and it's pissing Dean off. Every instinct he has is yelling at him to go after the angel, grab him, turn him around, and _wring_ a clear response out of him—and it's a possibility now, without his ability to just vanish mid-conversation. Well, not literally vanish. He's doing a pretty good job of scampering, shoulders hunched, slipping in and among the crowd of SAPI saps now meandering to the parking lot, quick pace putting bodies between him and Dean and Sam.

Dean's cleared the table and started through the restaurant before Sam stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "Dean. . ."

"What, you want to just let him _bolt_ on us like that, Sam?" No, he's not just angry with Cas. He's angry with everyone. He's angry that after everything, they're still in this same pattern of behavior that's spanned back years, of getting everything they need to know handed to them piecemeal while people are in danger. And some part of him sees red at the fact that _Cas_ can just shut him _down_ and go angelic dickhead again even in his humanity, even after everything between them since he fell. Castiel has insinuated himself so deeply into Dean's life that he's not sure he could go on without him, any more than he could without his brother, but he can flip like a switch and it makes Dean have to question if it's all a lie. _Happiness is a lie._ "No. You stay here and. . ."

"Dean." Sam repeats, stepping in front of his brother, and now he can't see his angel, just Sam with his ridiculous hair in his eyes and the earnest, open expression that _pisses Dean off_ not because it should but because Sam uses it on purpose. "I got this. We need him to talk, and you're not going to _talk_."

"Oh, I'd get him to talk. . ."

"Dean." Sam repeats, more sharply, as if repetition of his name will remind him of who he is and how he's supposed to react, and the bitch of the thing is that it's working. Sam's hand squeezes his brother's shoulder, and his voice is low and reasonable. "Chill. I get that he's. . ." Hurt your feelings. ". . . pissed you off, but we need you in the game. Talk to the hunter. I'll go get Cas. We'll meet back up at the motel."

Sam's right. If he gets ahold of Castiel right now, talking might not be the final result—Dean's not sure what the outcome would be. They _are_ going to have this out, though, as soon as this case is over. Scrubbing a hand down his jaw, Dean nods once, abruptly. "Go. You're losing him."

Holding up his cell phone indicatively, Sam steps back from Dean towards the door. "I activated the GPS on his phone after Storm Lake."

Sam thinks that Dean forgets sometimes that Cas is _his_ best friend, too. They'd been living on the road together since Iowa, all three of them, and Castiel had given his _brother_ back to him _._ They're never going to have the same sort of 'profound bond' that Castiel shares with Dean, but then again. . . _he_ hadn't gone and fallen in love with the guy. They're going to have to talk about this eventually, no matter how much Dean fights him on it. For now, he slips out of the IHOP after the angel, before his brother can change his mind, thumb swiping to unlock his phone screen as his eyes scan the rundown city street. He can't have gotten far, but there are a lot of places he could have slipped into in the short distance between the IHOP and the park, the park and the motel.

He hadn't intended to let either Cas or his brother know about the GPS. Sam's a worrier, always has been, and he holds half the responsibility now if anything happens to Castiel. He'd been the one to let the genie back out of his bottle, so to speak, and from Storm Lake on if anything came after Cas for his role in things it's on Sam's head. He knows Castiel won't think of GPS tracking, won't think to ditch his phone, and if he can keep his brother from calling it constantly he won't even think to turn it off. Half the time he forgets he has it-every person he could want to speak with is in the car with him-but he dutifully keeps it on him, a routine so dryly established as if it was part of his checklist for signs of humanity.

Pocket knife, cell phone, hex bag, lockpicks, knife, gun. The same routine, the same order, the same pockets, with almost militaristic precision: a soldier arming himself for the field.

Rather than chase Castiel's dot on his screen, Sam watches it, feet beating a slow and steady rhythm on the broken concrete sidewalk, in the direction of the fallen angel. He'll wait until he's stilled, until the dot settles in one location, before closing the gap between them.

 

 

* * *

 

Dean scowls as he watches his brother take off after the angel, but pulls his professional mask down as he turns to the one man still waiting after the saps of SAPI left, holding out his hand.

"Dean Winchester," he introduces himself gruffly, assessing the hunter in front of him like he's filling out a field interview report in his head, or updating his father's journal. Ruben Rivera, maybe 45, Hispanic/white mix, dark hair and eyes, about Cas's height but burlier, looks slightly military . . . like he could hold his own if it weren't for his injuries. "George Mackey called us in. Want to fill me in?"

Rivera settles into the space Sam left, coffee mug in hand, and he and Dean take the measure of each other as the waitress gathers plates, and she turns to them with a smile. "You need anything else?"

"Just keep the caffeine coming," says Dean with the smile he reserves to brighten the lives of random waitresses across the country. The smile is gone as soon as the waitress is.

"I don't like hunting with people I don't know," says Rivera, not belligerently, just stating facts. "And I have heard some … interesting … things about you and your brother. Not sure who the other guy is. Not sure whether I can have any of you at my back, or if I want you in my city." Dean's spine stiffens a little as he puts Rivera on his mental watch list.

"Not sure you're gonna be there for the hunt anyway," Dean counters. "Just start at the beginning and report." Dean isn't barking orders, but it has the force of a field officer requiring a non-commissioned officer to give a situation report—his father's soldier. Rivera takes note, sees steel in Dean's jawline and more age in his moss green eyes than a calendar can account for, and Dean watches him just as carefully. His first impression of Rivera is mixed: he's waiting to see whether the man's going to be any help in this hunt at all when Rivera finally starts talkin

"San Antonio's a big city, more than a million people and spread out, not up. Doesn't much look like it, but this area has been lived in for thousands of years, long before the missions. Brackenridge Park has areas some local Indians say is sacred, or forbidden. Don't know why. Plenty of ghosts in the park too; everything from kids and other folks that drowned when that area flooded in 1921 to our own lady in white," Rivera offers, stopping to swig more coffee.

"How many drownings?"

"Just that one incident? At least 50. 'Course it was before my time. The ghosts don't cause trouble, and I've got others in hotels and buildings all over town where they do. Haven't seen the need to salt and burn 'em, even if I _could_ find the all the bones. Haven't messed with the ghosts at the Alamo either, and as long as nobody gets hurt, I'm not going to. It might put the Ghost Tours out of business, and those are good people." Rivera shrugs, drumming a fingernail against the side of his mug. "George has scientific evidence of hauntings in the park: voices, strange noises, electronic voice audios, shadow people, photo ghosts, the works."

"What about your woman in white?" asks Dean. "Think she might be behind the homeless women disappearing?" Sam's usual thorough research had uncovered reports on her he was looking into the area. Park Police had reported tales of a woman in the long flowing dress holding a basket of roses and tending flower beds near the river, who vanished when they turned back, leaving only a small pile of freshly plucked weeds.

Other nights, cops reported seeing a woman silhouetted in the moonlight walking on the river wall by the upper pumphouse or precariously along the highest lip circling the Japanese Tea Garden. Her long dress is ripped off one shoulder, her hair wild, and she wields garden shears threateningly. Makes men who see her involuntarily cross their legs. Sam couldn't find any incident reports showing anyone had gotten hurt, though—But Dean wants the local's take.

He's also testing Rivera, seeing how forthright he'll be. Those shot up body parts don't add up to "ghost."

"Nah, I thought it might be, but it's not her. I saw it . . . _them,_ the other night," Rivera doesn't look shaken, but he's seamlessly taken control of the direction of the conversation, dropping a tip for the waitress down on the table between them. "Let's head out to a bar and I'll describe what did this," he says, indicating his shoulder sling with his chin. "But I can use a drink."

Dean offers to follow him to the bar, unwilling to leave the Impala behind and reluctant as always to deal with riding in the bitchseat of someone else's ride. It's a nice car, though, and as Dean goes to unlock the Impala he takes a moment to admire Rivera's black 1970 Dodge Charger, sleek and well maintained, its wraparound chrome bumper gleaming in the evening sun. "440 or hemi?"

Dean knows his muscle cars, and this is a nice example. Not as nice as Baby, of course. He and Rivera spend some time talking cars, Dean letting himself immerse in the conversation and put the drama on the backburner for the moment, before he follows Rivera the short distance to a bar. Dean has removed his tie completely, leaving it in the car and loosening the collar of his shirt, ditching the Fed look before he hits the bottle. He keeps the jacket on to conceal the .45 he wears. Both men order shots and a beer, and Rivera has downed his first shot and ordered a second before checking his phone for messages.

"You married?" Dean asks, trying to find out more about the guy, plus it's a chance to question another hunter and figure out whether he's managed to combine this job with a personal life. Morbid curiosity. "Not currently," Rivera says with a wry grin. "Not shacking up with anyone either. I think it was wife number four or live-in girlfriend five that convinced me that maybe I'm not cut out for it."

"Ya don't say," says Dean, grinning back at the guy. Rivera shoots back his second whiskey with a shudder and waves his finger to get the bartender to pour him a third; Dean can see he is steeling himself for what comes next.

Rivera starts in on how he'd been hunting in Brackenridge Park the other night when he saw a homeless woman wandering farther back from the walking trails. He said the news article had nudged him to check out what was going on in the park-publicity didn't help him do his job, and the faster things calmed down the better. "Right now, there's one local article and that's my fault. I went to get stitched up and my shoulder popped back before I got rid of the body of that thing. I know better, but I didn't figure in how long it was going to take at the hospital, or how early some people get to the park."

"You got a name or description of that woman you followed?" Dean asks. He's glad the bar is fairly dark to hide his expression when Rivera admits he thinks the monster got her. What kind of friggin' hunter can say that so calmly, just rolls with something snatching up a civilian? "How'd you get hurt?" he nudges Rivera verbally to keep the story coming.

"Did you see the body?" Rivera asks.

Dean nods, shrugging. "The parts."

"It wasn't in parts when I left. It was big, though and was dragging that woman away. Kind of human-like, but fugly with wings like a bat. Ugly-ass face, too. No idea _what_ it was. Bled though, and keeled over when I shot it center mass enough times. But before I could get out of there there was…I don't know…a _flock_ of them. They were clawing me, pulling on my arm, the woman, the body. I don't know what the hell they are. Nothing _I've_ ever seen before."

Deans takes a pull from his beer, drawing it all together in his head, and he doesn't like where this is leading. Lots of women are missing, according to the homeless shelter. Rivera let _another_ innocent get taken last night, used her as bait. The city is rife with ghosts, but the city's hunter is doing nothing about them. They have some sort of infestations of unidentified bat man monsters inked with Enochian symbols, and Cas called it an abomination and bolted. Things aren't adding up. "What's your thing with SAPI and George's group?" Dean asks abruptly, startling a calculating expression on Rivera's face. "How long have you been hunting? And how'd you get into it?"

"What's this, an interrogation?" snaps Rivera. "I didn't do anything wrong and I don't like your questions." He throws money on the bar and storms out. Dean lets him go, but he doesn't intend to let go of the questions. Something wasn't right here, and part of that did fall square upon the local hunter, he thinks.

He's getting straight answers out of _someone_ , one way or the other.

 

 

* * *

 

Castiel had asked for a sign. Some indication that he was doing the right thing, and he thought he'd gotten one. God had lifted him from the broken vessel that was Jimmy Novak's breathing and comatose body, his _own_ corpse, and tucked him away in Heaven. Castiel had earned Hell a hundred times over, a thousand, but by divine will he was spending eternity in Heaven with Dean Winchester—he _had_ to be on the right path. Everything he'd been taught in the garrison, every emotion and impulse and connection that he had been censured for, demoted over, cast out. . . it was _right_. He was meant for this.

Five hundred years without a sighting, since Italy, and it finds him here side by side with his Winchesters on a simple case of missing people in an unlikely far-flung city where _everything_ bears a religious connotation, names of saints and holy men and biblical references. He has been an instrument of fate since before such a concept existed: Castiel does not believe in coincidence. He has been stabbed in the gut before, twisted the blade himself, but this sort of pain. . . he isn't _built_ for it.

So he compartmentalizes it. He has to understand, he has to confirm for himself the teachings that have been imprinted on him for millennia.

The street running alongside the park is lined with bookshops and antique stores, all converted homes with rickety front porches and hand-painted signs on posts out front. The hours are erratic, but he noted each business as they drove past in the Impala, always cataloguing more than he let on with his undirected stare out of the window. One, an old colonial style home with white pillars and plum-colored siding, has a light on inside, its dim glow pooling in the evening shadows of the front porch. Books are stacked on shelves floor to ceiling, leather bindings and paper as fragile as the autumn leaves on the ground outside. The storeowner seems surprised to see anyone entering, as if Castiel were intruding on his own private collection rather than entering a place of business, and is just as reluctant to part with the book Castiel returns with from the converted dining room full of religious texts.

The credit card the Winchesters gave him, an assumed name upon it, works regardless of the price tag: the guilt he feels for the inherent theft of their nomadic lives is nothing but a half-formed regret this time. As quickly as he entered he's gone again, the book clutched in his shaking hands as he slips between the buildings, tracing his own path now toward the motel.

Sam finds him some time later. The lights of the carousel and the tilt-a-whirl are almost hypnotic in their rotation, the sounds of children laughing, faces painted for Halloween parties, it is all distraction and reminder. The world has been gilded in the golden light of sunset, and he's surrounded by the joy of innocence, and yet the parents passing give him looks that remind him that he does not belong here.

Sam joins him on the bench, holding out a half-eaten funnel cake dusted with powdered sugar, a sign that the younger Winchester has been here, watching him perhaps since he arrived.

"You wanna tell me what that was all about?"

"No." Castiel answered honestly, blue eyes following the path of one flickering light on the tiny Ferris wheel, its basket swinging back and forth from the exuberance of the children nestled within. Sam waits, hearing the unspoken ellipse of indecision. After a moment, Castiel hands him the small book, and Sam draws a finger gently down the cracked leather spine.

"The Book of Enoch. Bobby has one of these." Looking up at Castiel, whose gaze never shifts to him, Sam frowns slightly. "Thought you had this thing memorized, Cas."

"I do." Castiel confirms. "This is a crude translation."

". . . Okay. So. I'm gonna need more to go on, Cas. You saw the Enochian and you just took off. Dean's got his panties in a twist about it. . ." Finally Castiel turns to Sam, his eyebrows drawn in, an unspoken question mark. ". . . It's a phrase. He's upset that you left without talking to us. Again. I'm gonna need answers, Cas. What's going on in this place?"

" _The sons of God saw the daughters of men, that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose."_ Castiel begins solemnly, his voice low and rough, his eyes once again following the children painted as demons and witches and ghosts. " _When the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to them."_

"That's in Genesis."

"A version of it." Castiel confirms, and he leans forward, elbows across his knees, hands loose as he hunches over. "Two hundred fallen angels, an entire garrison, cast out of Heaven for rebelling on Lucifer's command. Many made their home on Earth, took human vessels." Turning his hands, Castiel stares at his palms as if there is an answer to be found beneath his skin. "They sinned deeply, twisting as Lucifer twisted, by sin and by time. The Grigori, they were called. They helped Lucifer craft the first demons, sending him the most likely by tempting humans on earth into violence, into vanity, into lust. We hunted them, but the damage was done and they were scattered. Michael captured and buried the leaders of them in the pit, threw them down to the brother they'd worshiped as their God, and they became little more than demons themselves, though stronger. Lucifer's most loyal servants."

Raising his eyes, Castiel fixes a piercing stare on Sam. Now that he was giving the answers, he felt compelled to continue. To explain. Perhaps Sam could help Dean understand. "Asmodeus. Ba'el. And their leader, Azazel."

Sam sucks in a harsh breath, hazel eyes fixed on Castiel, and he can see pain there—fresh even after all these years. It was cruel, telling Sam this much, pulling up his own worst nightmares. He could have simply left out these details, but Sam has caught him in a confessional mood. It was what they said they wanted from him.

"Two _more_ like Azazel? Is that. . . that's not what we're dealing with here." Sam is asking Castiel, now, wanting him to confirm the matter for him, sure of it though he is because of the details of this case, and in this Castiel at least can offer some comfort.

"Asmodeus and Ba'el are still in the pit." Or they were, the last Castiel knew of it. The lights and the sounds of the park are grating, now, in the setting sun. Each child's laugh is shrill and grating. Raising his hands, Castiel presses his fingertips to his temples, as if he can will his headache away again. "Like Azazel, they were more interested in fashioning demons from humanity." Azazel's self-proclaimed children, whom Dean and Sam had killed in recuing their father. Twisted, broken souls. "This is not their doing. This is the work of my other brothers who fornicated with human women, the offspring of that fallen garrison. The spawn of fallen angels."

Anna had called herself a walking blasphemy and she was not wrong, not in the eyes of Heaven. She had fallen out of envy, out of jealousy of what humanity so took for granted. Castiel had joined her in it, had chosen as she had and embraced his blasphemous nature. He had fallen for another reason, though. Like the Grigori of old, coveting what they could not have.

Swallowing, Castiel shifts to stand and Sam beats him to it, holding a hand out to haul him to his feet. Castiel hesitates a moment before accepting the assistance, the medication depleted and the headache darkening the edges of his vision again. Sam tosses the remainder of the funnel cake into the metal barrel trashcan, tucking the book under his arm, and they retreat to the motel room, Castiel a pace behind Sam's long stride, looking out towards the park.

"We're gonna need to know how to fight them. What we're dealing with. How many there are, and how bad it is." Sam is remarking and he continues as they cross the lot, though Castiel is only vaguely paying attention. The Impala is parked in front of their motel room again, and Castiel braces for confrontation.

He is not disappointed.

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you, Cas?" Dean's mood hasn't improved, his "panties" are still "in a twist" and Castiel is in no mood to be shoved. Bringing his arms up between Dean and himself, he shoves outwards at the insides of Dean's elbows, flinging Dean's hands off of his shoulders.

"Do not _push_ me."

They're face to face, well inside of each other's personal space, and Sam clears his throat after a moment, stepping up beside them. "So. Monsters?"

Castiel breaks the staring contest with Dean, though it is not a concession. They will resume this argument later, he is certain, and he will not apologize for needing space to _think_. Everything is coming down around him, all his carefully maintained justifications, the fledgling happiness he has built comforted by the idea that this was what his Father intended. Stepping past Dean, Castiel hauls his duffle bag up onto their bed, addressing Sam in terse, businesslike words, ignoring Dean who glares at him without moving from his spot.

"Look up the 'Monster of Ravenna.' It is the last recorded instance of one of these creatures, five hundred years ago in Italy." Shaking the pills into his hand, Castiel swallows them dry and then digs into the bag farther. "Ignore the woodcuttings. The word spread far, and they embellished the image."

"Like adding a harp and halo and fluffy white wings to a bunch of friggin' dicks?"

Castiel's jaw bunches again, and he continues in a measured tone despite Dean once again attempting to push all of his buttons.

"Winged like a bat. They live in the dark, and they consume human flesh. They're not unintelligent, but they are little more than ravenous beasts, driven by sin and instinct."

"Says here that Pope Julius II ordered the Monster of Ravenna starved when it was born." Sam offers from across the room, looking intently at the computer screen as if it can rescue him from the tension pulled tight as piano wire between his brother and the fallen angel. "It's one of the most documented historical accounts of a living monster."

Castiel doesn't bother remarking on that. Dean ambles across the room, leaning a shoulder up against the wall, arms folded, halfway between Cas and the door, able to look over Sam's shoulder at the screen. "Charming. How do we gank these freaks?"

The angelic blade rasps against the zipper of the bag, metal on metal singing through the air of the motel room and drawing the attention of both Winchesters as Castiel tests the weight of it. Even as pissed as he is Dean can't ignore the significance of Castiel willingly touching the weapon again.

"Cas. . ."

"These 'freaks' are the descendants of monsters and humans." Castiel's voice is a low growl, anger and pain, and he tucks the blade up his sleeve, securing it with a simple leather strip that dangles to his palm, ready for him to release it into his grip. As Dean steps away from the wall, moving closer, Castiel looks up at him with the inscrutable stone expression of his former nature.

"Monsters like me."


	4. Chapter 4

This is going to go terribly wrong. Sam can feel it from the start in the way his brother and their angel refuse to speak to each other as Castiel takes off in stiff, purposeful strides out the open motel room door. And maybe it's to Dean's credit that he at least started trying to address Cas, to reach out a hand to his shoulder, but the moment the angel dismisses him he's back to underhanded comments and angry glances throughout Sam's abbreviated summary of Castiel's information. Eventually, even that falls silent.

Sam doesn't mention Azazel by name. Not yet. Dean's already distracted enough, and Castiel won't look at either of them. Cas had added nothing to their knowledge, insisting the brothers should let him handle this, and he'd stormed off ahead of them. Dean had followed moments after and kept the grueling pace Castiel set, keeping the angel in sight and in earshot while not closing the distance they'd built between them.

No. This isn't going to go well.

The park is empty this time of night, but the stone pavilion is dimly lit; flickering fluorescent lights embedded in the wooden beams of the high-pitched cathedral ceiling. Broken crime scene tape flutters uselessly between the stone pillars along the open sides, providing no real barricade to the scrubbed-clean area in which the mutilated, strange body parts had been found. Raised above the slow-moving San Antonio River and the driving bridge, it is central to the entire park and where they know the creatures have gathered before.

Ground zero.

They haven't researched these things nearly enough for Sam, and with Dean's information from Rivera they knew what they were looking at an entire _flock_ of fast, strong monsters. The pavilion is too open. Too many lines of possible attack.

Castiel stops his forced march on one end of the building, back to the huge fireplace, blue eyes turned to the curving staircase and arched doorways onto the platform over the river. Before they can reach him, the fallen angel takes a fighter's stance, and a sharp tug on the leather tie drops his sword into his hand; cold and familiar purpose of thousands of battles. His voice is strident, carrying, ringing over the water and echoing in the empty hall as he bellows the guttural challenge in Enochian, and repeats it in English. "I am here, abominations—face me!"

Dean and Sam are only a few steps behind the fallen angel, still dressed mostly in their suits like militant tax collectors, when the spawn of the Gregori scramble in from entrances on three sides. Six walking nightmares, each taller than Sam; they stand naked and bulky, with clawed hands and wings like bats that spread ink-black shadows across the concrete around them. The Enochian symbols are carved into their corpse-gray chests like tribal markings.

Turning slightly to cover the left-hand flank, machete in his left hand and .45 in his right, Dean falls back on reflex the moment he feels threatened: sarcasm and cracks. "Whew, they give fugly a bad name."

" _If it bleeds you can kill it_ ," Sam tells himself, a little mantra that helps him focus, and he shoulders the Remington pump action shotgun, loaded with rock salt and iron fillings. The boys fall into a wedge-shaped formation without discussing it, covering each other's backs and Castiel's.

There is no warning or hesitation: Castiel twists in place and slams the angelic sword into the chest of the creature closest to him, his free palm rising up simultaneously to thrust the monster off his blade again, shove it aside as hell descends on them all. This is battle, and war, and _this_ he understands. The blade is an extension of his body, of his will, and a familiar weight in his grasp. As they close in on him from either side, Castiel thinks it's almost like being home.

Gunfire is loud and carrying in the pavilion, each sharp report of the .45 bleeding into the next, fast, but not panic-fire.

The hybrids are _fast_ , wings and some faint spark of that angelic ability to relocate making them hard to hit with the firearms, to track with the shotgun, and Sam has resorted to using the stock to pummel the one in front of him, smashing the scratched and battered hardwood repeatedly into its face with sickening crunches and pops that barely slow its attack. The spray of blood is hot and sticky when Dean whirls beside it, lopping off the top of the monster's head with his machete and sending it slumping to the concrete before Sam. Dean's is down: pump them full of enough bullets, and they stop twitching. "Thanks, bro," grunts Sam.

Castiel takes each hit like a boxer, unflinching with the blows that rain on him as he always has been-only now he can _feel_ each injury and some part of him realizes that this is a continuation of his failure to adapt. For millions of years, he has waded into the thick of battle and collected injuries that would maim a human, and now he is nearly human himself and behaving as if he's still commanding the garrison. Subconsciously refusing to accept his complete loss of Grace.

As they drive him down, the blade slashes out again, hamstringing the creature, but not breaking the crushing grip of its claws.

The brothers are back to back and side-stepping towards Castiel when the fallen angel is driven to his knees with a low gasp of pain. Dean registers the motion, the sound, and without considering how damned _stupid_ this plan is, tackles the bat-like creature, knocking it backwards and away from Cas. But with a twist like a wrestler, the thing pins him with his leg bent awkwardly under him, and the air crushed from his lungs. His gun keeps going, hitting the ground a few feet away and grating across the concrete. Dean grapples with the monster, its reptilian eyes inches from his own, snapping maul and sharp teeth trying to reach his throat, as he turns his head trying to force enough air through his throat to call for help. The monster uses the time to bash Dean's head against the floor again and again.

The Gregori spawn stinks like brackish water and fetid breath. It's heavy and its naked flesh is too oily to let Dean grab onto it. His head hurts and he can see blackness creeping in to his vision. "A little help here!" he gasps.

Fire burns along Dean's arm as fangs are buried in it, the thing's head worrying the flesh like an attack dog. Dean can't use his legs to push himself from the ground and his left knee sends pulses of pain through his body for trying. Dean hears the shot and feels the sting of bits of iron and rock salt along his side and he is half crushed as the bat-thing's weight collapses on him completely. "Get this thing off me!" he yells, trying to push it away.

And as fast as it started, the fight is over. The bodies are gone with the remaining monsters, to end up chewed-up and spat out pieces later, except for the one Sam pulls off his brother.

"Don't _ever_ do that again!" snarls Cas as he picks himself up off the ground, breathing heavily, electric blue eyes fixed on Dean. "I do not need you to save me."

"Back at 'cha," growls Dean, who is trying to push himself up with one arm, cradling the other to his chest, but winces and falls back with a grunt. His white dress shirt is in tatters and covered in blood, including the back of his collar from the head wound. His pant leg is torn and his knee looks red and swollen even in the dim light. "What the _hell_ were you thinking, Cas!" He angrily pushes away Sam's arm and tries unsuccessfully to stand again.

Sam's worried face creases into one his brother is familiar with as he inhales sharply and barks orders at his older brother and best friend. " _Enough_ with the bitch fight, lover's quarrel, hissy fit, whatever you want to call it! We don't have time for this shit. Cas, if you aren't hurt than drag this body out of here. Toss it into the river or something. Dean, shut up and sit down 'til I can see how badly you're hurt. Then you're either going to let me help you up, or I will _drag_ your stubborn ass." But the bluster has left his brother—as adrenaline fades, Dean collapses.

It takes both of them to lift Dean's still figure from where he has slumped on the floor, but Sam cradles his brother like he would a child to his chest for the half-mile trudge back to the motel room. He tries not to panic when Dean doesn't regain consciousness or struggle in his arms, knowing how much his brother would object to the undignified position. They need to move, though, and now—the gunshots will draw park police quickly, this soon after the publicized attacks, and three bloodstained men wandering through the park after hours would make anyone suspicious.

Sam is tiring as he approaches the door, glad when Castiel catches up to unlock it and help maneuver Dean onto the bed. As Sam eases off his brother's jacket to get a better look at Dean's injuries, Cas brings the first aid bag, and then heads to the bathroom to get washcloths and towels. He moves to the far side of the bed and finishes undressing Dean to his boxers and tee shirt, allowing Sam to cut off the shirt and begin assessing Dean's wounds.

"This is my fault." Without Dean consciously picking a fight with him, Castiel's tone is flat, his hand on Dean's forehead as if he can will the injuries away again, as he always had before.

"Yeah, it is," Sam answers, too annoyed to be tactful. "But it's mine too, and his. We _know_ better than to go off half prepared. When we do, people get hurt." Sam has stripped off his own suit jacket and ruined shirt, making a mental note that he and Dean would need replacements soon. "Are you hurt, Cas?"

As if the words have roused him, Dean stirs and Castiel withdraws a few paces from the bedside, both of them turned toward the prone figure on the bed as he tries to get up, murmuring "Hurt? Cas? Sammy?"

Sam gently pushes his brother back down, telling him to lie still. He looks back at Cas for an answer. "No, Sam, nothing that cannot wait. My arm may need some stitches." Sam nods and has Cas wrap one of the hand towels on his injury and press. Sam is uninjured except for a few bruises, and he knows that both he and Cas would have been hurt worse if his big brother had not thrown himself between them and danger, but saving them doesn't make what Dean did acceptable. Dean has been badly injured because he thinks he has to protect them from harm.

Dean's arm needs stitches for two of the gouges from the monsters claws. The bites he cleans with peroxide and bandages with gauze and medical tape. His knee looks like pulp, but it moves; so Sam thinks it is not broken. He has Cas make ice packs which he places on both sides of the knee. The most worrisome problem is Dean's head injury, which has stopped bleeding, but Sam feels a goose egg when he probes it. That, too, gets an ice pack. Then he turns his attentions to Cas. When he has finished stitching and bandaging the angel, Sam lightly taps Dean's cheek to rouse him so he can check for concussion, wondering if he should wrap his brother in a blanket and head for the nearest hospital.

Almost as though his older brother was reading his mind, Dean starts muttering. "No hospital, Sammy. I'm fine. I think I was just sleeping." Then as though to prove it he gives answers to likely questions. "I'm Dean. We're in San Antonio. Mildly concussed. My knee hurts like hell, but I'm fine."

It's the final straw, that bullshit fallback lie they've allowed to take over their lives _._ Sam explodes, the frustration finally irrepressible. "Fine _!_? If I _never_ hear you tell me you're " _fine_ " again, it'll _still_ be too soon! You thick-skulled, stubborn pain in the ass." He stops himself just short of jabbing Dean in the chest with each accusation. "Right, _fine_! … 'Fucked-up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional' fine? I swear, if you didn't look so damned pitiful right now I'd kick your _ass_ for throwing yourself in front of those monsters. Am I helpless? Is Cas?" His hand swings, pointing to the fallen angel nervously watching Sam's outburst as if expecting to have to intervene between the brothers. "Do you have a _death wish_? Damnit, Dean, you're the only family I have left and I don't even _know!_ You won't _talk_ about anything to me! Because you're just "fine" every time I try to talk to you!"

Dean pushes himself up onto his elbows, unwilling to take the argument lying down, either figuratively or literally.

"Sam, you don't have to always friggin' psychoanalyze everything! Sometimes being 'fine' is just. . ." Dean's grasping for words, angry himself and blustering as he always does. ". . .just Fine! You know what I've been lately, Sammy? I've been actually _okay_. But dammit, Sam, you're still expecting chick flick moments outta me, and I don't _do_ that!" Dean's finger swings to Castiel, who is still watching the exchange, awkward in his silence. "I'm just not _talking_ about it, but it isn't like we've been _hiding_ anything from you! I mean, geeze, Cas has never exactly been subtle!"

". . . I thought I was fairly. . ."

"Shut up, Cas!" The Winchesters chorus.

Sam's looming over the bed, now, and the finger remains pointed at Castiel. "You're using _him_ as proof you're okay? You're _both_ fucked up. And I get it. You and him. I do. But if you're being so 'open' about everything, Dean, let's go ahead and _talk_ about your drinking, or tell me about your nightmares. _Both_ of you! You're walking around like damned trauma survivors, bottling everything up. _Neither_ of you talks about a damn thing, you just keep on. . ."

"Enough! I can speak for myself, and I will not 'shut up.' I am _not_ a child. I do _not_ need protecting. And my nightmares are none of your concern." Castiel's voice is forceful, and he steps away from the wall finally, hands bunched into fists at his sides.

"Says the asshole who just walked away from an argument and into a friggin' cage match with the freaks!" All Castiel's interjection has earned him is Dean's ire, his glare and the undivided focus of both Winchesters. Without looking at his brother, Sam pushes Dean lightly back down onto the bed when he tries to rise again, but the elder Winchester's words continue on undeterred. "Speaking of trying to get themselves killed, I am fucking _sick_ of this 'monster' crap from you, Cas!"

"I _am_ a monster, Dean!" The words are delivered as truth, final and unquestioned, in a low shout that finally has the neighboring room banging on the wall to shut them up, and Castiel continues in a growl. "I am the _exact_ kind of monster responsible for those 'freaks.' I am the exact kind of monster that founded Hell. Find _one_ source or guide or historical account that paints fallen angels in a positive light, Dean, that is not written by one of Lucifer's sympathizers."

"Demon blood." Sam responds, into the ringing silence that follows Castiel's words, jerking a thumb at himself. Pointing a finger at his brother, he continues. "Tortured souls in hell. We _both_ jump-started the Apocalypse. Cas. . . that's the damned _problem_. We're _all_ convinced we're the monster."


	5. Chapter 5

Dean swivels his body to sit up as the light through the curtained window lets him know that it is late morning. His head is pounding like he's got a rock concert going on behind his eyes, his left arm feels like. . . well, like a hellhound's chew toy, and he should know; but the worst part comes when he tries to stand and his knee yells that it has other plans. He's been trying to be quiet and not wake Sam and Cas, but he can't hold back completely and the hiss of pain as he sits back on the bed abruptly wakes Cas.

"Shhh, go back to sleep," he whispers hoarsely as his eyes roam the room looking for something he can use as a crutch. But Cas is up, and, like he can read Dean's mind, he brings over the ladder-back chair by the table. "Try this."

Dean pulls himself up one handedly and tries pushing the chair while hopping on one leg. It takes about two hops for Dean and the chair to get snarled. As Dean starts to tumble he finds Cas has inserted himself under his left shoulder, arm around his waist gripping tightly. Dean's arm aches fiercely, his head is now playing a drum solo, and he wobbles, but manages to stay upright as he lets his friend help him into the bathroom, but shoos him out and shuts the door. He might need help getting there, but he'll be damned, again, before he lets Cas help. "I have seen it before," snipes Cas, but it has no real fire or argument behind it.

"Yeah, you're real subtle," growls Dean as a rejoinder, taking care of business then using the vanity to help maneuver him to the sink to splash water on his face and rub it through his hair. He peers in the mirror; yep, just as he thought, he looks like shit warmed over. He figures he better pull it together or Cas and Sam are going to bench him. "Cas," he calls softly. "Get me some clothes, will ya?"

Cas makes his feelings known by handing the hunter a pair of sweat pants, clean boxers, and a tee shirt. His electric blue eyes are challenging Dean to argue. "Do you require my assistance?"

Dean snorts and pushes the door closed before sitting down. He manages the bottoms with some difficulty, but has the shirt over his head and his good arm before realizing he can't lift the left arm enough to finish. As Dean sits there chewing on his lower lip, Sam taps on the door. "Come on, Dude, my turn," he says as he pushes open the door. Sam tries to keep a poker face as he sees his brother's predicament, and he steps out, shuffles through Dean's duffle to grab a button-down without saying a word. Then Sam steps in, whisks the tee back off over Dean's head and eases the sleeve over Dean's bad arm, using the time to check the bandages as well. Dean is flustered and feels like a three-year-old, even more so when Sam one-arms him up and hands him off to the angel like they'd practiced the move.

Cas leads Dean to the edge of the bed, helps him sit and lift his bum left leg up. His fingers are deft, now, as they make short work of buttoning Dean's shirt, and before he can protest being coddled Castiel hands Dean three pills and a glass of water. "Painkillers and some left-over antibiotic," he tells Dean in answer to the silently questioning eyebrow. "Swallow."

Sam and Cas are both watching him now, leaving him feeling a bit like a cat at a dog show, but he's in pain so he gulps the pills down. Cas has two more of the white pills in his hand and uses the rest of the water in the glass to take them himself. While he does that, Dean assesses the damage to Cas's face. "Man, you've got to learn to _duck_ ," Dean growls softly, reaching for Castiel's battered cheek. Cas's face twitches with his faint smile as he leans into the hunter's fingers just a little, both comforted by the touch.

After their argument last evening, Sam's glad to see the pain pills are making his brother's eyes close as he curls onto his right side, looking years younger without pain tightening his features. Sam knows that if he isn't asleep, Dean is going to insist on coming with him, and there are so many reasons he shouldn't. While Cas finishes getting ready, Sam sorts through the bloody, torn, and cut up clothes, mentally noting sizes as he plans a shopping trip to a thrift store. He pieces together one outfit that will pass as a reporter by going through both his and his brother's duffels.

Sam's to-do list continues as he waits for Castiel: breakfast, then they need to hit the library and find a topographical map of the park, locations of caves, canals, more information about the bat things – all things Cas can do, he thinks. He'll cover hitting the police department and collecting missing person's reports and unsolved crimes with the Bexar County Sheriff's Department to get a better grasp of how many likely victims there are, and how long it's been going on. These are open records, so he will remain Sam Cooke, the reporter. He also needs to shop, both for clothes and food, and to get a brace and crutches for Dean. As Castiel pauses on his way out the door to pull the comforter up over Dean, Sam has the fleeting hope that Dean will just stay asleep until they get back.

Being the driver has its perks, though: as Sam slides behind the wheel, he pops the tape out of the deck, and fiddles with the dial until he finds a station playing something a little more to his taste than Dean's constant rock and metal. Mumford and Sons' banjos may be out of place in the Impala, but as the band encourages the listener to "Roll Away Your Stone" he leaves it on the station despite that.

To Sam's amusement, Castiel tries to get into the backseat. "No way, Cas. I'm not playing chauffeur. You're up front." The angel doesn't seem to understand the problem. . . it is his seat, after all. . . but he accepts the change of location silently. Drive-thru donuts and coffee cover the first item on Sam's checklist, and he goes over Castiel's research assignments and secures a promise from Cas to keep his phone on so they can meet up after Sam's finished.

It's a rare opportunity, Castiel and Sam sitting in silence in the fairly heavy traffic, and turning down the radio Sam decides to take advantage of the Impala moment to try to pry from Dean's angel what he'd never get from his brother. "Cas, how is Dean doing with the nightmares?" Sam blurts. The angel has never been good with understanding vague questions anyway. Cas turns from the window and gazes intently at Sam.

"You are asking because you are worried." These are the kinds of statements that, if Dean were in the car, would get Cas tagged as being Captain Obvious. "Your brother takes responsibility for everything that goes wrong and very little of what goes right. His guilt about how he believes he has failed you and me crushes him, and he atones ten times for every trial he has faced with less than perfection. He still…after all he has done… does not feel worthy of having been saved from hell. If I had as humble a heart, I never would have fallen." Sam waits, thinking that Castiel may be leading up to an answer to his question, but Cas instead turns his head toward the window again.

So, trying to get answers from Castiel might be just as difficult as trying to pries them from Dean.

"Yeah, Cas, I know. I just don't know how to help him. Or you. But I was reading about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and I think if we could get him to talk about the nightmares it might help. I think he keeps things bottled up inside. I'm worried about his drinking and the way he keeps getting hurt trying to protect me like I'm still his baby brother." Sam knows he's venting, but he thinks the fallen angel may be the one person in the world most likely to understand his frustration with Dean.

Castiel doesn't look away from the window, and after a moment he responds without turning his eyes from the city skyline. "Sam, are you talking about Dean, about me, or about yourself? If you wish to talk about your nightmares, I will listen." He owes Sam that much. There is no questioning that Castiel had inflicted much of Sam's torments on him—from the moment he failed to rescue Sam's soul from Hell along with his body and when he purposefully broke the fragile wall that shored up his sanity just to hold him hostage over his brother - Castiel had contributed heavily to Sam's instability. One act of "god" did not undo months, even years, of damage: Castiel knew that better than anyone, now.

"I'm talking about _all of us_ , Cas."

Castiel makes a quiet noise of disagreement, head shaking slightly, now following cars with his eyes. "I've said all I needed to. I have 'talked' to someone." And for as dry and factual as his next words are, they shouldn't affect Sam quite as deeply as they do. "I spoke to Dean about them, and he spoke to me."

And there it is.

They've been playing this dance of two-room nights, shutting down inquiries, not discussing what was going on between Dean and Castiel, yet this is the first time that Sam has felt like the third wheel in anything in his brother's life.

It's a lot to consider, a drastic shift in perspectives. The rest of the trip passes in silence.

Dean wakes up to an empty room; he can tell even before he opens his eyes that Sam and Cas have both gone out. He rolls his way out of the cheap southwestern themed comforter and onto the dingy carpet as gently as he can. With no one else there, he's not worried about the indignity of what he has to do, and Dad's military training comes in handy as he low crawls his way to the bathroom. As he snakes past the duffels, he grabs a pair of jeans and an a couple ace bandages.

When he leaves the bathroom, he is hobbling but on his feet again, having wrapped the knee before pulling on his jeans. He heads for the table, hoping that his brother, or his… Cas… thought to leave some food, because a quick glance out the window proves his car is missing (again) and he's in no shape to walk somewhere to get something to eat. He decides against taking the two pain killers Castiel had clearly left out on the nightstand for him because they make him groggy, and there's just too many things not adding up on this hunt.

Dean fires up the laptop, looking for answers and determined to make himself useful. It doesn't take long before he decides San Antonio ought to push Austin out of the picture when it comes to weirdness, and Austin's city motto is "Keep Austin Weird."

He's found four different ghost or haunted tours, numerous accounts of ghost sightings, strange cases of people be mauled, killed, or missing, ancient areas of the city considered sacred land with restless American Indian spirits, ghosts of the defenders of the Alamo still hanging around, and, then, there's a zombie celebration called Dismember the Alamo that has perfectly normal people (relatively speaking) pretending to be shambling corpses.

Dad's journal doesn't explain what he was doing in San Antonio, and Dean knows the city has a hunter – he just can't reconcile an active hunter ignoring a city full of hauntings. Gordon Walker taught Dean the lesson that hunting is more than black and white, "see a monster- gank a monster." And through the years, Dean has spared some vampires because they didn't drink people, and he spared Jesse, Amy's son, and Bobby John because they were kids, but he knows this matter keeps coming up: is their job to kill all monsters, or is it to kill evil monsters? What exactly is a monster anyway? Because, if the definition includes everything supernatural, he could have a problem.

("I am a monster," Castiel declares again in his memory, and he watches him standing in a field of fallen bodies, driving the sword through the heart of a mutilated angel.)

Dean is still puzzling over the jumble of information and implications when his phone rings. The founder of Paranormal Investigations of San Antonio, George Mackey, wants to meet finally. After hearing that the hunter was injured, Mackey agrees to come to the motel room – he even promises to bring crutches and something for Dean to eat.

Ten minutes later, Mackey is knocking at the door of the hotel room, and Dean gets his first look at the man who asked them to come. "You actually look less like your father than your associate I met the other day does," says Mackey, jovially, after shaking the hunter's hand. Dean's mouth quirks at the thought of his dad and Cas being related in any way, or even meeting. "Interesting guy, your friend. Got about three words out of him before he ordered me to stay put and went wandering off. Wonder if he thinks I should still be standing there?"

It feels good to laugh, chases away the rest of it for a while. "Yeah, sounds like him. Sorry, his people skills are a little rusty."

As they sit across from each other eating the beef fajita tacos Mackey brought with him, Dean asks how the older man met his father and came to be involved with the supernatural. The story takes them back ten years, to the famously haunted Emily Morgan Hotel. The spirit there went vengeful, eventually severely injuring one of the maids, and John had taken care of it. Mackey tells Dean that it was shortly after he had retired from teaching and started the Haunted San Antonio tour and PISA.

Making a living off of spooks and the supernatural. The idea makes Dean uneasy, no matter how many jokes they make about the family business, and he's not sure what to think of it. "So, why do the P.I.S.A. thing? Never thought about becoming a hunter?"

"That's a younger man's profession," laughs Mackey. "I'm still just a teacher at heart. But after the tour businesses became more popular and profitable, we hired Ruben to be our full-time hunter." Mackey has an easy, grandfatherly way about him. "Which reminds me . . . we gotta talk about your fees and expenses – but from the looks of this place, you're keeping those low. Ruben always gets a hazard bonus if he's hurt on the job, and looking at you – I think you're owed one. Plus, I'd like you guys to check in with me, keep me in the loop about what you've found out."

Regular pay… expenses? … bonuses?

Dean's not sure if he's envious or pissed off. Dad may have raised them to be con-men, but they've never charged the victims for helping. It's always been about the end result — fewer monsters, more safe people — than any idea of a payoff. Mackey's site was pretty straightforward about PISA offering free assistance, but Rivera. . . what kind of man hunts for money, and how does the close tie-in with a lucrative tourist industry affect which monsters are ganked?

How is it that Mackey's written books giving the names of these spirits, and Rivera's never thought to salt and burn them?

Dean pushes these questions to the back of his mind as he tells Mackey what they have found out so far at Brackenridge Park, and about the showdown at the pavilion last night. He skims over some of the finer details, but wonders all the while how much Rivera did the same and for what reasons.

When Mackey leaves, Dean spots a white envelope on the table. Mackey's untidy handwriting across the front titles it Bonus. Inside is $2,000.

Dropping the money back on the table, Dean frowns at it in silence. He feels like a whore.


	6. Chapter 6

The walls are closing in on Castiel.

The library that had seemed so dauntingly massive upon entry has contracted into a cell the size of a coffin, pressing in on Castiel as he sits in the tiny research room off of the cavernous main hall. Even the glass front to the room, looking out on harried college students, retirees in slow-moving herds, school-groups and patient families shushing their young, does little to make the room less confining – there is no illusion of space, he is in a glass cage, on display. The air conditioning is recycling the air of a hundred thousand other readers and researchers before him, and every breath he takes was someone else's. His notes are cramped shorthand, as if he's trapping the words as he has been trapped, and the muscles in his back and shoulders are taunt, twitching. No matter how much he wishes he were elsewhere, he will remain stationary in that cell.

His wings are long gone, and he will never fly again.

The first breath of air outside of the library is so blessedly sweet that he doesn't care about the sharp tang of downtown pollution, so close to the streets. The copies he paid to have a patient library assistant help him make when the infernal machine refused his commands and his own handwritten notes are half-crumpled in his clammy palms, and he leans against the strikingly reddish orange front of the library with his head tilted towards the sky, letting the heat and light of the Texas sun soak into his skin.

It came and went. He had grown accustomed to the confinement of the Impala; he could ignore it in favor of his companions, but even there, in the home he had been invited to share with them, it crept up on him that he was living in a steel and glass cage looking out on the freedom of the landscape and the road as it rolled beneath them, not actually sharing in its liberation.

Children burst through the glass front doors of the library in a chorus of jubilant chattering, and he can empathize with them: after the restrictive quiet of the library, they celebrate their freedom to simply be _children_. He watches them, tracking their motion as they swarm back towards their buses, until the noise of it finally drives him away.

He can't wait here for Sam, not like _this_. There is too much talk about 'talking,' and Castiel is not prepared to discuss this with Sam Winchester. Dean knows - less from conversation and more from observation, at times silently offering the fallen angel his flask, or rolling down the windows of the Impala on the longer drives, or simply offering space for Castiel to breathe.

He focuses on his breathing, now, footsteps and each measured exhalation working in steady countering rhythms as he makes his way down the city sidewalk, letting the repetition comfort him. It's not until he looks up sometime later and sees the cathedral spires ahead of him that he has any aim to his steps.

He shouldn't go in. It's ill-advised and he knows it, has known it since the encounter with the priest in Iowa, but nevertheless he passes through the square towards the San Fernando Cathedral without slowing, past café tables and park benches. The light breeze through the water of the fountains gives the entire area a sense of oasis from the unseasonable heat, and the sunlight on the white stone makes the cathedral walls almost seem to glow.

Castiel has always preferred parks, natural spaces, and even children's playgrounds for contemplation—he enjoys simplicity and untarnished innocence, the closest replications to his favorite Heaven that he could find on Earth. But here, he can see how some people find their peace in the church. The vestibule is empty when he enters, a soothing quiet that emanates from the old stone and the carefully polished wood, and the light is subtle through the upper windows, lighting the ornately arched ceiling and playing across the white marble tomb of the Alamo Defenders.

Castiel has been all across the world, seen churches and cathedrals and chapels built around the remains of saints and holy men, and few of them are as lovingly preserved as these simple soldiers who were butchered to the last man. This was a city that took the most brutal battle of their history and built something beautiful from the field of slaughter.

As he settles into the final pew, far from the ornately carved and gilded altar, Castiel can't help but notice that the surrounding depictions of the Heavenly Host are mournful, each cherub looking down with pleading eyes and steepled hands, younger brothers and sisters all turned toward him in quiet desperation and sadness. He has no answers to offer them.

"I'm sorry."

He shouldn't be here. He can't be here. Dragging a hand down his face, Castiel lurches to his feet and flees the soothing peace of his Father's cathedral.

" _Gimme back my bullets. Put 'em back where they belong. Ain't foolin' around 'cause I done had my fun, Ain't gonna see no more damage done,"_ Dean sings along with Lynyrd Skynyrd from the laptop's playlist, as he waits for the painkiller he has allowed himself to even out the pain. Taking just one so he doesn't fall asleep again makes him worry about how easily Cas has been throwing down the pain killers … and _functioning_. He remembers the Castiel of the aborted apocalyptic future, drowning himself in drugs and alcohol to cope with humanity, and he's determined not to let it get that bad.

But Dean has crutches, and when he called Sammy to tell him to get back here and get him, his brother said he was picking up a knee brace from a pharmacy for him. He won't be fast, but he also won't be stuck in the room. Sam's swinging by to get him, then they'll both go pick up Cas.

"Dean, how long have you been awake?" Sam bustles through the door carrying several bags. He puts the keys on the table, and Dean snatches them up as Sam starts bringing out purchases, including tossing his brother a beer and a knee brace. "You hungry?"

The question leads the brothers to a discussion about Mackey and money. Sam's pleased to have some cash. "Ha, think, with a job like Rivera's we could put down roots and still keep hunting," Sam suggests. "We could have the best of both worlds."

Dean snorts and shoots his brother a measuring glance. Is Sam serious? Is he going to cut out on Dean again? For that matter, why the hell is Sammy acting nervous, fidgeting around the room, turning off the music, sorting medical supplies for the first aid kit, and putting things away like a housekeeper? Dean's big brother senses are tingling. Something's got Sam spooked. "Sammy, you gonna tell me what's got you on pins and needles?"

"Let's change your bandages and go get Cas," Sam answers. "I'd rather just go over it one time, and we have to find your angel anyway. He's not at the library any more, according to the GPS." While he's talking, Sam has helped Dean unbutton his shirt and position himself on the bed. The stitches are fine with no redness or swelling, but Sam isn't happy about the bite. He positions a towel under it and washes it with antibacterial scrub and peroxide before taping new gauze pads over it. "Take your pants off," he says.

"Buy me dinner first," quips Dean. "I'm easy but I'm not that cheap." He smacks away his brother's helping hands and lowers his jeans to reveal his knee. He wants the ace bandage off and the brace on anyway.

"Cas buys you dinner?" Sam tosses back at him, which effectively shuts Dean up for about a second before he looks panicked.

"Hey, unfair to get me all undressed and start 'discussing' things and having chick flick moments," Dean whines, struggling to get up. "I can't bare my soul without my clothes on!"

"That's not what I heard," Sammy teases with a smile, shaking his head and holding his brother down on the bed with one hand. He's teases when he knows he shouldn't because he is a bit frustrated about them keeping him out of the loop, having discussions without him. Sam is poking at Dean's knee by then, and using the distraction to palm the keys that he saw Dean pick up earlier. Dean's knee looks puffy still. He really should have it elevated and iced again, but instead, Sam hands over the brace and digs ibuprofen out for the swelling. He's seen Dean insist on getting up with worse injuries, so he helps his brother get dressed again.

When they get to the Impala, Sam asks Dean if he'd rather Sam be busy with traffic or bored and asking questions. Dean doesn't argue about letting Sam drive, just lets out a sigh and slumps into the passenger seat, going back to the topic he has been puzzling over the entire afternoon.

"Sam, even if you think it's okay that Rivera gets paid, there's something wrong with this whole situation. I get Mackey; he was an older guy even when he first moved here. He's making money from his books and the ghost tours thing, but he's like balancing that with PISA to help people. Even paying a hunter to be on hand. That's good. But Rivera, he's taking the paycheck, but he either doesn't know what he's doing or is doing a craptastic job. There's something _wrong_ here."

Sam listens; he trusts his brother's instincts, knowing how often they have kept them both alive. God, this job is getting so complicated, he thinks. "So, you think something is rotten in Denmark?"

"Trouble right here in River City," Dean responds.

"Dean! … First power ballads, and now a musical? Are you feeling okay?" Sam grins and smacks his brother's shoulder, immediately trying to take it back because its Dean's bad arm.

Dean is laughing and grimacing at the same time. "Watch it, bitch!"

"Jerk." But neither of them is angry. After their argument, it's as if the air has been cleared for a time, letting them fall back into their easier rapport. They decide Rivera needs to be looked into. Maybe they can find out who he trained with and how he became a hunter, but after the rise of the witnesses and the Apocalypse, there are fewer hunters they can turn to for answers. Thank god they still have Bobby. Dean makes two calls and leaves messages on both; the first to their personal guru, and the second to Sheriff Jodi Mills to ask her to run a background check on Ruben Rivera.

Sam hands his brother his Blackberry with the GPS tracking app open, letting Dean navigate as they wind their way through the unfamiliar city to locate the angel; and he considers turning on the radio again just to watch Dean's face when it's soft rock. Instead, he fills Dean in on part of what he discovered at the Bexar County Sheriff's Open Crimes records and the San Antonio Police Missing Person's Department, pushing down the rest of it to join the cold pit in his stomach, until he can break it to Cas as well.

The city has had plenty of weird happenings, their kind of strange, since – always – but the past few months things have been really heating up. People aren't just turning up missing from the park, they're disappearing from the universities around Brackenridge, strange animal deaths at the zoo which also borders the park, and people complaining about stalkers and assaults at the Japanese Gardens, too. The police have also had an increase in unusual deaths and mutilated bodies found along the park land from the Riverwalk extension, and out Mission Road where the less famous landmarks are, but most of it has been hushed up as not being good for the tourist industry.

Sam's interrupted when Dean's cell rings, and it's Bobby. "What have you boys got yourself into now," comes the gruff voice greets them, as Dean puts it on speaker phone.

"That's what we called you to ask," Sam answers, as Dean continues to juggle both phones. They hear Bobby's put-upon sigh, knowing he really only gets mad at them when they don't check in now and then.

Dean recaps the case: missing people, multitude of ghosts, the business arrangement between the hunter and the ghost tours, and the Grigori spawn they fought.

Bobby's put feelers out in the hunting community, but he's never personally interacted with Rivera, and except for that one time – when he referred it to their father – he hasn't spoken to George Mackey either. He cautions them to be careful, because the closest backup he can find if they need it is over near Baton Rouge, Louisiana, at least a seven hour drive away.

"Yeah, we're going carefully now, but Dean's already hurt," snitches Sam, and gets a swat on the back of his head from his brother despite being behind the wheel.

"Again? What's wrong now?" Bobby's terse, joking manner doesn't hide his real concern. "Seems to me that Dean's lucky not to get himself killed more often." With a promise to call as soon as he has more info to share with them, and orders for Dean to take better care of himself, Bobby disconnects.

As they hang up, Sam finds an empty parking spot big enough to fit the Impala near the square the GPS indicates holds their angel. When Dean and Sam see it abuts the cathedral, they exchange worried glances. "You want to wait here and let me go find him?" Sam's not surprised when Dean waves him off and hands him back his phone with instructions to find them someplace they can eat and get a drink.

Dean spots Cas sitting on a bench staring through the fountain at the cathedral and hopes his friend stayed outside. He also worries that the angel probably forgot to eat, but mostly he lets himself be drawn to his friend like metal filings to a magnet. His voice is soft as he sits down next to the angel, interrupting his thoughts. "Hey, mister, can I buy you a drink?"

Cas turns and _actually_ smiles, and Dean can't help returning it. Cas's smile breaks his heart and makes him happy at the same time. He swears to himself that even though this thing between them isn't anything he thought he would ever want, he can't lose it. Can't lose _him_. Just sitting near Cas makes him feel less empty inside, stronger, less alone.

"You shouldn't be walking, Dean."

"Way to ruin the moment, Cas." Dean smiles to take any sting out of his words.

"Were we having a moment?"

Once they get back to the car, Sam says he thinks he knows the perfect place. In a few short minutes, they park outside The Hard Rock Café, where a sign announces they're having a Led Zeppelin tribute night _. His brother, beer, burger, Zeppelin, and an angel. This might be his heaven_ , thinks Dean. After they are sitting at a patio table with their beers and burgers, Dean changes his mind about his brother and Cas being invited into his heaven: they're teaming up as if they planned it, benching him when they head out to the caves Cas found on the geographical maps.

Actual frikkin' Bat-Caves with actual frikkin' Bat-Men, and they want him to sit this one out.

"You're not getting around well enough to go through a cave, Dean. Not with uneven ground and rough terrain." Sam adds apologetically.

The hits keep on coming. These things are some kind of fallen angel mutated spawn, and just _talking_ about them makes Cas look like he's standing there taking punches again. As Sam reads out the list of missing, some 30 in total over the past few months, Castiel flinches like every goddamn one of them is his fault until Dean rests a hand over Sam's list to silence him. He knows when Sam looks up that he's been putting off something worse before his brother even opens his mouth, offering the information quickly as if by forcing it out he could make it easier to bear—ripping off a bandage in one quick tear.

"I found out when it all started. I wanted to figure out how they got here, or if they'd been here long-term, so we knew what we were looking for. The first missing person. . . It's the same day as Storm Lake. It all started that night."

The night Castiel burned with the Grace of God again. The day he dragged Dean, three angels, and a dozen humans, back from the dead. The day the bare remainder of the power of fifty million Purgatory souls, fallen monsters all of them, were released back into the world. Gabriel had warned them, in his way—a few hundred resurrected monsters were walking the earth once again.

Castiel doesn't look surprised: he looks _devastated_. He stares at Sam for a long moment, and Dean's not sure he's remembered to breathe until he pushes himself to his feet. This is becoming a reflex, a habit of his, escaping rather than show emotion in front of them. Neither of the brothers is surprised by it, now, but he offers a rough excuse and strides away across the patio and out onto the Riverwalk.

Son of a _bitch_.

Pushing himself to his feet carefully, Dean grabs his crutches and hands Sam the envelope of money to pay for the meal, eyes on Castiel's back as he retreats. "Book another room tonight."

For now, he doesn't care where the money came from that allows it. Cas needs him.

His progress is slow and painful as he follows Castiel, but the angel hasn't gone far. Eyes closed, he stands beneath one of the footbridges that cross the river here, eyes closed, slouched back against the cool stone behind him. Cas doesn't open his eyes when Dean approaches him, stopping to let one crutch rest against the wall beside him, bracing the hand instead on the wall next to Castiel's shoulder as he leans into the other man, looking down at his angel. "Cas. Look at me. This isn't your fault."

Castiel is slow to respond. He doesn't open his eyes, and his voice is wrecked as he speaks. "Dean. . . I would do it again. Their lives for yours, I would do it _again_."

It _is_ his fault. All of it. And he is no better than the fallen angels whose offspring he will have to send back to Purgatory.


	7. Chapter 7

From a young age, Sam Winchester has to some extent idolized his older brother. He became a better student because Dean wanted him to be, he tried to become the hunter his brother was, and even the deliberate differences he built between them he did so _because_ of him. However, Sam is damned sure that Dean is completely oblivious when it comes to certain things.

Perched on the low stone steps leading up to a footbridge crossing over the trailing riverside sidewalk lined with restaurants and shops, slow-moving flat bottomed tourist boats and strolling shoppers, looking at his brother and his brother's angel tucked away , Sam's fairly certain that Dean has absolutely no idea how different things have become in a short span of time.

Only a year ago, Dean would have awkwardly blustered about personal space at merely having Castiel appear right beside him. Now, even without anything overt going on, _Dean_ has moved into _Castiel's_ space, his good arm braced against the wall beside the man, head dipped low and voice an indistinguishable murmur over the lap of the water against the channel wall and the distant sound of music still piping from the Hard Rock Café. No one looking at the scene would mistake it for anything but intimacy, and they're in a public enough setting that the Dean of the past would have withdrawn by now.

It's a private moment, and Sam isn't there to infringe on it. He slipped past them unnoticed and silent, and took up a post for the time being, long legs folded awkwardly in the narrow space as he sits across the steps waiting. It might be somewhat jarring, knowing and now witnessing that his brother has started confiding in someone else, but Sam's not selfish enough to resent what he's seeing here. Dean may be completely oblivious to how things have changed, but Sam has spent a _lifetime_ watching his big brother — he can see it clearly, even if Dean hasn't taken the step back to look at it.

Eyes skimming the waterfront from his perch, he notes the slow-moving tourists that will round the river bend soon, and pushes himself to his feet from his sentry position. Better him interrupting than them. Dean's changed a lot, but he knows that his brother would still prefer _this_ not be scrutinized by strangers.

He lets his footsteps ring on the concrete this time, echoing beneath the footbridge, to give Dean the time to draw back slightly from Castiel, leaning against the wall beside him instead, and even now their shoulders nearly touch.

It makes what he has to say to them both all that much more difficult – and that much more important. It doesn't take much to convince Dean to go back to the hotel to plan the hunt, and Castiel trails along silently in Dean's wake, temporarily subdued. Returning to their room with a bottle of whiskey and twelve-pack of cold beer in hand from his earlier shopping, Sam steels himself for what he needs to do next.

Sam wants the hunt to go smoothly with no more injuries; he knows that their best hunter is sidelined, and that things have just gotten all sorts of complicated. Their encounter at the park only underscored that they were all working counter to each other, instead of in step, and they _can't_ have that again.

Sam knows Castiel and Dean _both_ look at him as a little brother. It's not going to be easy to get them to let him take control; so as the guys are settling down to some serious drinking, Sam decides to go ahead and tackle the two hardest points first, suspecting that Dean will not be pleased with what he has to say to the angel.

"Cas. I need to know that you are not going to take off on me tomorrow. I need you to plan with me and stick with it, so we are covering each other's back. You can't flake out on me like you did last night or at the restaurant just now," Sam begins, trying to ignore the look from his brother that is screaming for him leave the angel alone.

"Back off, Sam." Dean is refusing to be ignored.

"No, Dean, we've got to do this. I want us to check out the caves in the daylight when these things are less active," insists Sam. "I can't go in there like I've got someone to watch my back if I'm going to have to chase Cas down the moment he gets upset about something. I need to know that Cas'll follow orders. . . because damnit, Dean, I'd be better off going alone - and that would be pretty friggin' stupid because we've got no idea how many more of these things there are."

Dean looks pained. He knows Sam's right about the job, but he wants to save Cas any more hurt this night. Cas has been following the verbal and non-verbal exchange between the brothers, and turns a shrewd look on Dean, gauging his expression.

"You are attempting to coddle me again. I have been a soldier longer than your ancestors have been alive. Stop." Cas stands and turns to face Sam head on. "You are the more experienced hunter. I will follow your lead on this." Then turning to Dean, Cas makes a promise. "I will not allow your brother to be injured."

"That's not your responsibility," Sam snaps.

Dean rolls his eyes. "And, Cas, you didn't _allow me_ to be injured either," he snorts. "I did this all on my own."

"Finally something we can agree on," smirks Sam. "And, Cas, I don't need you to try to out-heroic my brother. I'm a big boy, bigger than either of you, and I can take care of myself."

Sam has to wonder if Cas has been studying Dean's expressions like a guidebook: the skeptical big-brother glance is twice as infuriating when they both do it. It's as much to assert his competence and take control of the situation that he gets them both settled and takes out the restocked First Aid kit, cajoling them then into letting him check their injuries again, especially the bites. They swallow pain killers, sharing the whiskey bottle between the two of them to wash the pills down. As Sam works, he and Cas settle on a plan, where they will enter the caves, what weapons they'll need, and what other equipment they should carry.

Dean has been regulated to answering the phone and keeping medical equipment ready in case of emergency. His unhappiness with the plan is apparent, and Sam thinks he might have to find a way to handcuff his brother in place. If he has to worry about Dean the whole time, he'll be distracted.

Cas's stitches are still in place, so Sam just changes the gauze bandage. Dean's gouges are healing well too, but the bite looks infected. Sam frowns and warns his brother that he is going to have to force some of the pus out of the seeping wound. He also washes and re-bandages it, and digs out more antibiotics for his brother. Castiel watches the process in brooding silence, until Sam decides to distract the both of them.

Sam reminds Cas that things happened so fast yesterday that Dean hadn't been told everything Cas remembered from The Book of Enoch. "You holding out on me, Cas?" Dean quirks his eyebrow and gives the angel a flirtatious look with eyes that look like springtime, and despite himself Castiel can feel his heart beat faster, even as worry and concern take hold again.

Cas gazes at Dean intently, wondering if his friend will continue to look at him the same way once he understands the full implications of how _wrong_ their bond is. He tries to still his shaking with another drink, longing for some kind of pill to help this pain go away and wishing he could heal his friend as well. "I had forgotten that Dean did not know," Cas replies after a too-long silence. He'd hoped that Sam would have told him by now. Hoped he wouldn't have to. The only way he knows how to do this is to be completely factual, completely blunt. "The three leaders of the Grigori were Asmodeus, Ba'el and _Azazel_."

Castiel watches the effect of his words on Dean's gaze, how shock widens them, how dark thoughts crease the lines, how he draws a quick gulp of the whiskey to give himself time to think. "Azazel, huh? Well, that's one we don't have to worry about. I knew he was a different kind of demon, yellow eyes, shrugged off the holy water, all that. . . but a fallen angel?" Even as Dean acknowledges his surprise he has shifted closer to his angel, unknowingly and instinctively looking for the same reassurance that Sam had. "What about the other two? They still in the pit?"

Cas nods. He feels like he is drowning in sorrow already, but wants to get everything out, say everything that needs to be said, so Dean and Sam can damn him and spurn him if they need to. He has been living a lie, living the life of a hunter when he is really a monster.

"There's more," he says, getting Sam's full attention now too. "The Grigori, they sinned against their nature as they fell, and they intended to spread that sin to humanity – their offspring were evil, twisted monsters accordingly. But they are not the only angelic lines. Millennia before, those angels who were closely tied to humanity, who lived close to the humans, they gave a spark of their grace and their blood to help form children . . . the family lines that can become vessels, in their way they are children of _angels_. Lucifer, Azazel, they saw this as akin to heresy. . . abominations." The words are coming no easier, but he forces them out nonetheless. "He deliberately mimicked that, in the selection of Lucifer's vessel." A drop of blood, to seal the fate of his own 'children,' eventually drawing the lines back together. "These creatures we hunt . . . they are _my_ nephews, and your distant cousins."

Sam sputters. There are so many implications in this information. He and Dean are part of an angel's bloodline. A fallen angel became the demon who fed him blood when he was six-months old, killed his parents, grandparents. "Why?" He finally gets out.

"I do not have answers for you," Cas mutters, sounding defeated and tired. Lucifer, Azazel, the others. . . they are his brothers. But he was never a part of that garrison, and he has not fallen so far that he can claim to understand them.

Castiel sits separate even with the two of them near, drawn in on himself and hollow, the cracks showing. Taking the bottle from Castiel's shaking hands, Dean reaches for Cas, drawing him closer again. And then, just as Sam is deciding he should leave them alone, the phone (inevitably) rings.

Settling back onto the edge of his chair, Sam puts Dean's phone on speaker for the three of them. Jodi Mills gives her report briefly, short and to the point. Ruben Rivera was dismissed from the Army with a General Discharge. It appears to have been some type of agreement to get him out after several expensive items he was responsible for went missing. As far as a criminal record, he has never been convicted of anything, but through her sources she has found that he was suspected in several states of being involved in confidence schemes. Additionally, he was a suspect in his first wife's murder.

"The cons are less colorful than my record. Dad and Bobby were both suspects in their wives' murders," Dean points out after he is off the phone, offering the practical response, but there's still something bothering him about Ruben. The military discharge could or could not have been important, they decide, depending upon whether he was actually a thief. It gives them all something else to think about, but Dean's putting a pin in it for tomorrow, stretching out on the bed comfortably again, and giving his brother a significant look.

"We'll worry about it tomorrow. 'Night Sam."

Raising his head from his hands again, Castiel darts a look at Dean, somewhere between exasperation and thin amusement at the brusque dismissal. "Is this what _you_ consider subtlety?"

Sam's still laughing as he shoulders his duffle bag and heads for his own room.

"You're getting to be a smartass." Dean mutters, but he tugs at Cas from his prone position, pulling the angel down next to him on the bed, and Castiel doesn't resist. Curling onto his side and mindful of Dean's injuries, he pulls Dean into his arms and lazily draws circles on his back, soothing them both. For a moment they are content to just feel each other's warmth without talking, two souls who had always been lonely before they found each other. Dean's fighting off the effects of the pain medicine and whiskey because he knows that the fallen angel needs him, but he's succumbing quickly to sleep.

If he weren't injured, if things weren't settling into something _else_ between them, Dean's pretty sure about now he'd have turned this physical, distracted both of them thoroughly and put off having to think or talk that much longer. But someone's driven a railroad spike through his knee, his arm is mangled, and turning off his concerned thoughts is becoming more difficult.

Purposefully or not, Dean's sure he's corrupted Castiel, an Angel of the Lord. If it hadn't been for him, Castiel would still have his family, his home, his power. This angel who saw how weak and how broken he was in hell, how close he was to becoming a demon himself, but who _still_ pulled him out. Who still thought he deserved to be saved. Who has come in answer to his prayers so many times. He cannot, will not, allow Cas to be alone with the dark thoughts he sees circling behind his eyes.

Guilt, primary and obvious among them.

Every new tear in Dean's flesh, every scar he will carry with him from this case, arises from Castiel's stupidity, and because Dean tries too hard to take care of everyone, to save everyone even at the expense of his own health. Even after Castiel betrayed him, even after he turned against them and became everything they hunted, Dean has thrown himself at evil time and again to save him. Castiel cannot understand why Dean considers Cas so worthy of such sacrifice but cannot see _own_ self-worth. He needs to set this beautiful soul straight on some things, and his head is struggling with how to say what he needs to say without driving Dean away.

Part of him points out how inherently selfish that fear is.

"Dean Winchester," he begins, wringing a small chuckle from the man in his arms.

"Pretty sure we're on a first name basis," Dean smirks, sleepily.

Cas sits up straighter, keeping Dean clasped in his arms and maintaining eye contact because he _needs_ Dean to understand what he is going to tell him. "There are things you need to hear. You are worthy… caring… strong… intelligent… attractive… courageous..." Cas is saying each word, completely and compassionately, as though he can drive them into Dean – to make Dean believe them, _force_ them into his skull.

Dean is squirming by then, trying to break free and take control of the situation injuries or not, but Cas is more determined to hold on than Dean is to get away. "Sit still and listen," Castiel scolds. "I do not know why you seem to be so unaware of your worth, but I will not have it. I would do anything for you _. Anything_ ," he repeats, knowing he would die for this man, kill for him. He's done so in the past. "And I want you to understand that, that without you, I cannot go on. I need you to be here, to be with me."

"It's okay. It's okay, Cas. I'm not going to leave you," Dean tries to hush him, struggling to sit up and take the angel in his arms, only he can't because his damned bum arm is aching too much, and he can't even bend his swollen knee. He wants Cas to stop: he's never been comfortable with compliments, and God help them all if Cas starts quoting poetry at him next or something.

"No, you are not listening to me, Dean." Cas gives him a small shake as he rearranges Dean into his arms again. "You stubborn…." Cas has choked up, and he is horrified to feel tears running down his face. How is he supposed to make his point this way? These _feelings_ are too much to hold, and it was all simpler when he didn't have to struggle with me. "..foolish, stubborn…" Castiel has to stop again, sets his purpose, Dean has to understand.

"Dean, you are _not_ my _older_ brother. You are _not_ responsible for me or for _my choices_." And Castiel has to put his finger on Dean's lips to shut up his protestations now. He doesn't want Dean to deflect from what he is saying. He really wonders sometimes if he should not have traveled back in time when he could to put John Winchester straight. Dean's father may have had his reasons, but he stole this man's childhood away and forced him to grow into a man too willing to take responsibility for everyone else.

Castiel rocks gently and runs his hand through Dean's hair, using the time to calm them both again. "You are _not_ my older anything. I do not need you to take care of me as though I am a fledgling, and if you continue attempting to protect me. . . Dean, I cannot live counter to my nature." It was how it all started. How those fallen angels of old had turned, become demons themselves. It's a fine line to tread: Castiel has been Dean's guardian angel now for years and a soldier for far longer. He will not shy from the violence, but he needs Dean to let _him_ be the protector that his Father intended him to be.

Cas is holding Dean so tight to keep him still and silent that he is afraid he may hurt him. He kisses Dean's hair and starts again. "Listen to me, Dean. I need you to stay alive. This is your only life now, I won't be able to bring you back again. You cannot throw this life away so carelessly."

The silence lasts too long, and Castiel shifts finally to put himself eye to eye with Dean again to make sure he hasn't fallen asleep. Locking eyes, he watches the thoughts chasing across Dean's face. An tinge of stubborn defiance he expected, a touch of denial, compassion, and an edge of worry, of fear, that Castiel can understand.

This hasn't been a romantic declaration. Dean _has_ been listening, and it scares him when Cas says he will do anything for him because he knows that Cas means that _literally_. He's proven it, again and again, and it never ends well for them. It _should_ scare him; it terrifies Castiel. He has fallen so far already, and he can see now just how quickly he could join his older brothers in the pit.

When Dean tightens his one good arm around Castiel, Cas doesn't resist him, letting himself be drawn in for a kiss.

"C'mere."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with a warning. Please note there will be homophobic, crude language here. We apologize if it bothers anyone: it bothers us too, and definitely bothers our leads, but serves a purpose in the story.

Dean wakes up first, still held in Cas's arms, remembering how he fell asleep last night or more accurately _passed out_ from the pain pills and whiskey, before he and Cas – _goddamnit_ , Cas is turning me into a _girl_ – cuddling! He feels hot and sweaty, but maybe that's from having been clutched by this rumpled-haired man all night. Even as he tries to pull away, he realizes that his arm has swollen and is stiff and throbbing. His knee – well, seems he forgot to take off the brace and it feels too small now, tightened on his leg like a vise. _Suck it up, Winchester_ , he tells himself, _don't let them notice or nobody will get a frikkin' thing done today_. He pokes Cas and growls, "Get up. Sam will be here soon."

Mumbling something, Castiel stumbles up and heads for the shower without expecting a response. Now that he needs sleep, he finds he is not a morning person, and he understands coffee much better. Sam is already in the room with coffee and sausage biscuits when Cas re-emerges dressed for hiking or exploring caves.

Amused by how flushed his brother looks, hair rumpled and body wrapped in his blanket, Sam's glad he hadn't arrived any earlier. Dean sits up with his breakfast, using the caffeine to wash down his pills, an antibiotic, a hydrocodone, two ibuprofen. Cas takes two of the pain killers with his coffee, eating his biscuit like it's a chore to complete quickly, and finishes arming himself. "Don't do anything stupid," grumbles Dean from his perch in the bed. "Try to do a decent recon and don't engage unless you have to."

Sam grunts and rolls his eyes in response, thinking he and Cas need to get going before Dean stops being cooperative about staying behind – or keeps giving him advice like he's a rookie. "Nothing stupid, check. Thanks for that advice," he answers irritably. Leaving the Impala keys on the table in case Dean needs the car, Sam and Cas slide out the door into the early morning glow of another perfect Texas day.

Relieved that he's gotten them out the door before they could realize how sick he's feeling, Dean gathers his crutches and clothes and heads to the shower himself. Maybe it'll help with this flop sweat he can feel trickling down his neck. He mumbles profanities with every painful step and swing of the crutch. Shouldn't he be feeling better by now? When he strips down and removes the bandages and brace, he notes how puffed up and discolored the bites on his arm are. _Frikkin' bat-men_.

It takes longer than it should and leaves him feeling like he's gone six rounds of sparring with his brother, but Dean is clean and presentable again as he lowers himself into the chair by the laptop, and after the hot shower he is shivering. He drags the blanket around his shoulders and decides to do some digging into Rivera while he waits for a more reasonable hour to call Bobby, who is in a time zone an hour earlier than San Antonio.

Starting with simple search engines, Dean collects Rivera's address and looks at a Google map in case he might need to check it out. Not even a mile away in an apartment building from one of those big old homes, Dean notes. _Goddamnit, I'm acting like a stalker_ , Dean thinks, but he doesn't really care because Rivera doesn't _feel right_ to him. His name comes up in connection to every ghost tour, haunted house, and paranormal society in San Antonio, like he's got his finger in every pie, and people should keep their frikkin' fingers out of pie.

 _Pie sounds pretty good right now_ , he thinks, not realizing that a high fever has his thoughts jumbled up.

Bobby calls while Dean is still mulling over what all this might mean. "He's bad news," Bobby starts the conversation, knowing whoever answered would understand what he is talking about. "Steve Wandell says they went on one hunt together, 'bout twelve years back, he says the guy is reckless with anybody's life but his own. Seems like ghosts were his area of interest. Put buckshot right into the victim 'cause he didn't clear his shot pattern. Steve says he flat out lied about it afterwards. Martin Creaser says he'd never work with him again. Suspects him of burning down an apartment building to find the artifact holding one ghost back. Plus, Creaser says Rivera's only interested in paying customers."

By the time Dean tells Bobby that his gut has been telling him Rivera's not on the level, Bobby's heard something in Dean's raspy voice that makes him suspicious and asks Dean to put Sam on the phone. "Sam and Cas are looking into the local caves for where these bat-men are," Dean says, groaning a little as he shifts around after having sat for too long. " _Bat-men_ in _Bat-caves -_ but those two left me here to man the phone…like some helpless old dude," Dean says, disgust apparent in his voice.

"Quit your bitchin', _ya idjit_ ," Bobby says. "Who do you think you're talkin' to?"

Dean stops to think for a moment, then says, puzzled, "I'm talkin' to you, Bobby." He hears a snort over the phone. "Boy, you _must_ be sick to be this slow. That's what you two do to me most times. Leave me to man the phones."

Dean's embarrassed and apologizes, but Bobby is more concerned than annoyed with him and starts throwing him questions about his injuries. Dean does his best to deflect them, but his head has been pounding, and he feels groggy and lethargic. "Well, seems to me your brother made the right choice leaving you behind today." Bobby says unsympathetically. "Why dont'cha just watch some TV or take a nap 'til they get back. Have Sam call me," he finishes.

 _Damn_ , Dean thinks, now finished the lame assignment and it's not even noon. He wipes sweat from his forehead and realizes he's thirsty. He decides he'll just go get something to drink, swing by to check out where Rivera lives, maybe commit a little B&E. It's a struggle to get his boots on, and he decides to just tuck the laces in because he can't tie them. _Frikkin' pathetic, Dean_ , he growls at himself, and in his head it sounds a lot like his dad. He's having a hard time finding his knives and guns and wonders if Sam or Cas borrowed them or hid them thinking he wouldn't go out unarmed. Dean heads out to the Impala, making sure his phone is on in case his brother or Cas needs him.

The Mini-mart gas station just up the street from Rivera's place offers orange juice in the cooler, and Dean feels smug about making such a responsible choice. He may be coming down with something because he's feeling wobbly, and not just from his leg. He leans against the Impala, which he parked where he can see the apartment building, as he checks for any security system and gulps the juice, swallowing two more ibuprofen tablets.

Deciding he's not at his stealthiest, Dean moves toward the apartment building trying to project the air of harmlessness. _Just a guy crippling home with a bum knee and an arm twice its normal size,_ he tells himself and anybody listening psychically, cause, hey, you never know. He's aware it's not his most rational thought, but his brain is a little bit fuzzy. The apartment opens toward the parking area where the 1970 Charger is nowhere in sight. Dean is thankful, though, that he's been picking locks since he was seven years old. Even one-handed he has the door swinging open so swiftly most people would think he must have a key.

Rivera's place is OCD neat, and Dean realizes that means he has to be careful while rifling the place. It's two-bedroom, one bath, with the smaller bedroom being used as an office. Dean starts looking through the desk drawers and finds a hunter's journal in the second drawer. It was locked, but desks are easier than doors to open. _Bingo_. Almost every page is names, dates, places, and amounts. Ruben Rivera is ninety percent con-man, bilking every organization he associates with, double and triple-dipping. The journal has spells and instructions for riling up ghosts to make the tours more popular and lucrative. Dean decides to drive the few blocks over to Mackey's office at PISA and let him know the so-called hunter has been ripping him off. Dean tucks the journal into his belt and starts his awkward journey back to his car.

The entire San Antonio area, up through the nearby Hill Country, is pocketed with natural caves and underground cavern systems, and Mexican free-tailed bats settle in colonies throughout the suburban cave systems. The Bracken Bat Caves, a half hour farther up the road from the park, act as home to one of the largest concentrations of mammals on the earth through the autumn months as millions of the creatures swarm out nightly under the watchful eyes of hundreds of tourists, come to see the natural show.

Castiel ruled that system out early on in his research at the library: there would have been a sighting, or missing tour groups, and it doesn't fit with what instinct tells him about how these abominations hunt their prey – the disappearances are too localized. He _knows_ where they are. It is not simply speculation. As concerned as Sam seems to be about him as a Hunter, Castiel's certainty seems to have affected the younger Winchester.

Once they enter the dense thicket of trees off the park paths, Castiel checks his steps for a moment, turning to Sam and silently handing him the photocopied topographical map, as if reminding himself of their arrangement, giving over the lead in the recon. Searching the angel's face is useless – Sam has never gotten the hang of reading Castiel's expressions as Dean has.

"Taking it you've gone up against these things once or twice." It's a lame opening, and Sam knows it, but he's trying to invite conversation and it could be useful to know what Castiel can tell him.

"My garrison hunted them down and exterminated them all." Castiel is willing to let Sam take the lead, but he is not inclined to long conversation about it. Something about his terse words strikes Sam the wrong way, though, interjecting a disquieting thought into their trek.

"Exterminated them, huh?" Castiel's footsteps don't slow, at the question. "All of them? That include the starving infant in Ravenna?"

Beneath the shadows of the trees as he turns slightly, Castiel's eyes are the color of stormclouds, his expression inscrutable, and there's impatience in the lines of his body as he slows. "All of them." Castiel had been responsible for putting these creatures in Purgatory, as he had been for releasing them. It may seem cold, but it was _orders_ , and now is not the time for him to question every order he received from Heaven.

"That easy, huh?" Sam was an abomination himself according to Castiel, the handiwork of a fallen angel turned demonic. He doesn't mean for heat to be creeping into his words, but Castiel's confessions have affected him more than he expected.

"No." And for a half a heartbeat, Sam lets himself hope for comfort. "They were difficult to find. The Enochian sigils obscure their. . ."

"Damnit, Cas! Do you. . ."

Castiel comes to a complete stop in the wooded area, with a cutting gesture of his hand. "Sam. We cannot have this conversation now. These creatures, here, now, they are _murdering_. Do you doubt the necessity of taking care of this nest?"

"No, but. . ." Cas doesn't wait to find out how the sentence was going to end. Using one of the trees to push himself up a rill in the ground, Castiel resumes the purposeful hike towards the greenbelts that link the parklands across San Antonio, miles and miles of land left clear for floodplains and cave systems and the creeks that traced through the topography maps. Sam catches up after a moment and takes the lead in the march, but there's no further attempt at conversation between them.

It's still morning but the day seems to be dragging on when Dean reaches Mackey's office at PISA. It's on the third floor of an office building on Broadway, not far from the motel, and Dean promises himself he'll be back in that motel room bed lying down shortly. He's starting to think maybe Bobby was right and he should have just stayed put watching Doctor Sexy, M.D. Baby doesn't deserve to end up dinged up because Dean is driving her when he doesn't feel great.

Dean cripples his way to the office and is seated across from Mackey; he's sweating and grateful to get off his leg. Mackey hands him a glass of water and asks how he's feeling, looking at his flushed face with concern, even though they don't know each other very well. "Actually, I'm done in," Dean says, softly. "Just here to let you know what we've found, then I'm heading back to the motel."

He explains that Cas and Sam (who Mackey has not even met) are out finding the lair of the spawn. "The research pretty much indicates that these things have been here a few months and are probably responsible for thirty deaths," Dean explains, embarrassed by how hoarse his voice is.

Mackey is interested in the lore behind the bat-things and surprised when Dean explains they were most likely denizens of purgatory who escaped. The older man asks Dean to turn in a written report on what he's found when he submits his final bill, and Dean uses that to segue into his next area of concern, Rivera. He starts by asking Mackey where he met the hunter and why he thought he needed a full-time hunter.

"'Bout six, seven years ago, some of the regular ghosts started getting mean. Hurting tourists. I tried to call your dad, but his number wasn't in service. Ruben showed up one night at a SAPI meeting when we were discussing the problem. He pretty much talked us into hiring him on the spot."

Dean shakes his head and pulls out Rivera's journal. "Sorry, George, he's ripping you off. You don't need him; he was the cause of your problem. I did some research and he's not really even a trained hunter, just some guy with some knowledge of ghost lore who was looking for an easy payday." Dean is feeling sorry for the old guy, and promises that the hunting community won't leave San Antonio without help. "Listen, I'm sorry you couldn't reach my dad, but I'll make sure you've got my number, and my brother and I'll come back if you need us."

"You're a lying sack of shit," growls Rivera from behind him. "I've been following you since you three got to San Antone." Rivera's face is cold and angry. "Why do you think Mackey is going to listen to you instead of me, anyway, gay boy?" Dean turns sideways to face Rivera, knowing he doesn't stand a chance right now in a physical confrontation. He gets that Rivera is throwing out pejoratives just to rattle him, make him look less professional, and he hates that this one stings. It's like his dad's voice in his head again, like his own before he realized how he felt about Cas.

Before Dean can even struggle his way to his feet, Rivera has him on the ground punching him.

Fetid water sluices over their ankles as they slip into the deeps of the cave system, their flashlights slicing through the gloom as they creep through the dark. Where before the lack of conversation had been a choice, now silence is absolutely necessary and it presses in on them. Their footsteps are slow on the uneven terrain, picking out every foothold carefully on a cave floor made slick with layers of guano. Above them they can hear the rustle of thousands of wings, tiny bats enfolded upon themselves on the cave's craggy ceiling, drawing in on themselves farther at the intrusion to their daytime rest.

The smears of blood along the cave walls, the drag-marks through that guano, lead them as surely as a roadmap now.

Castiel has never trained using the militaristic hand signals that were drilled into the minds of both of the Winchesters by their Marine father, but he understands Sam's silent commands to him nonetheless as they reach the first splatter of gore and discarded parts. Falling back a step, he draws his pistol from beneath his jacket, bracing his wrist on his flashlight as he sweeps the light down the twisting passageways to their right, Sam two steps ahead and clearing the left, when they hear the slow rustle from just ahead, just above.

They sleep clustered together, wings drawn around their naked forms and obscuring their features. Below, the charnel is horrific: blood and viscera, hunks of meat and half-chewed limbs, fabric soaked with blood and excrement. It would be impossible to pick out how many bodies were in the cave without gathering and counting the skulls. A meat grinder would have been less thorough in destroying these victims.

Five. Two hunters to five living abominations.

The stillness protecting them is broken by the first harsh buzz of the phone in Sam's pocket, and the nearest monster lowers a wing lazily.

Dean has one of his crutches in a firm hold in his one good arm; he gets it between them and levers it under Rivera's chin as he shoves the man away, using the distance to scramble backwards toward the wall. He's hoping to be able to use the wall to force his body upright because he can't get his knee set to push up.

Mackey is coming out from behind the desk, but, hell, Dean thinks, the old guy is in his 60's and this psycho might hurt him if Dean can't do a better fighting him off. _Just his luck having the guy walk in behind him._ Dean distracts Mackey by tossing him his cell phone. "Call Sam," he demands, picking his crutch back up to use as a shield, blocking Rivera from closing in.

"Is that the one you're taking it in the ass for?" Rivera growls. He's trying to make Dean too angry to think straight, and the _sonofabitch_ is getting under his skin. "Your cock-sucking dark-haired boyfriend. I saw you two flirting on the Riverwalk. Saw when the tall one left you two alone last night in your motel room. When I went in this morning, I could tell you two musta had a busy night. Only one bed tangled. Does Mackey know what a pansy you are? Do the other Hunters, you faggot?"

Rivera's boot knocks the crutch out of Dean's hand, and his next kick is squarely on Dean's swollen arm. Dean can't hold back his yelp of pain and his sight blackens for a moment, but Rivera has made the mistake of getting too close. Dean smashes his head into Rivera's nose, feeling it crunch under him and getting sprayed as the hot blood gushes.

Rivera is bent over awkwardly, and Dean kicks him on the side of his knee, knocking him to the ground and making the fight fairer.

Sam's flashlight bobs as he instinctively moves to thrust a hand into his pocket, to silence the phone, but the damage has been done. Reptilian eyes fix on him, and a simple recon mission has been blown to hell: the challenging screech of the first monster rings through the caves, and nothing on Heaven, Hell or the Earth could have missed it.

The cellphone drops to the cave floor as Sam reestablishes his grip on his gun and opens fire.

Mackey has tried the number on Winchester's phone for Sam, but it goes to voicemail. "This is George Mackey from PISA. Your brother told me to call you. Rivera is beating the crap outta him here in my office. I…He needs your help 'cause he wasn't in great shape to begin with." Mackey's message is a little breathless. He tries calling the number again – leaves a second message with the address and location of his office. If this guy is at the motel, it shouldn't take more than a couple minutes to get here, Mackey thinks, panicking.

Rivera has Dean pinned under him by now, his hands on either side of Dean's head smashing it on the floor. Dean's fighting back, his right hand strangling Rivera's throat, but every blow seems to be hitting right where the bat-thing had banged his head before two nights ago. He goes limp and his hand falls away from the Rivera's neck.

Gasping for air, Rivera pulls himself upright and starts kicking the lifeless figure; Dean's flopping like a rag doll, defenseless against the violent attack. Mackey looks on horrified as he sends a text message to the number he has called.

HELP. RIVERA IS KILLING UR BROTHER. PISA 3RD FL.

The altercation has drawn the other two PISA employees; the grad student is videotaping the scene, figuring the footage can be used as evidence. The office manager shouts out that the police will be here any moment.

Every gunshot echoes through the cave like rolling thunder, and Sam jerks backwards as talons rake at his face, his eyes, barely keeping himself from being blinded by claws, but unable to stop those long talons from tangling in the hair that frames his face, fingers reflexively knotting into the strands that brush his collar and tangling there, yanking him forward again towards the creature hanging from the cave ceiling before him.

From less than a foot away, Sam fires into the gaping maw of the monster again and again until it falls, until it loses grip, the harsh halogen flashlight beneath his fist giving him the perfectly clear image of the face and skull of the creature being ripped apart.

That will follow him from this place for years.

Castiel's flashlight has fallen, but in his peripheral Sam can just make out the murky image of his friend surrounded, the combatants' feet alone lit brilliantly. The creatures have flocked towards the fallen angel, and there is no doubting intelligence behind their Enochian speech when Castiel's head snaps towards the side to glare at one of the creatures with an answering snarl. He's being surrounded, goaded, and attacked.

Castiel empties a clip into the creature, as claws rake across his back, shredding his jacket and into the flesh beneath: they're coordinating attacks.

They've nearly forgotten about Sam until he begins pumping the nearest to him full of rounds, stalking forward carefully on ground slick with entrails and guano and blood. He's having to play it safe, careful: a fall in here could be the death of them, and they're close-in enough with Castiel that he has to worry about crossfire.

Presumably why Castiel buries his sword into the chest of the one Sam had targeted as it focuses on the Hunter. Turning again has left Cas vulnerable once more, though, and he pays the price for it. A sledgehammer blow catches him in the side, flinging him from the now open circle of assailants and into the wall of the cave.

It's a dazed moment for the fallen angel: he hits the protrusions and jagged edges of the cave wall hard, crumpling into the heap of remains, the smell of it assaulting his nostrils. He can taste his own blood in his mouth, now, and he is seeing stars, pops of light. . .

No. The multiple lights resolve into one alone, square and small, half splattered with blood, and as he blinks his eyes they focus on the small black letters visible across the screen of Sam's fallen phone.

HELP. RIVERA IS KILLING UR BROTHER.

_Dean._

Castiel isn't sure what his hands are slipping in as he pushes himself to his feet again, and he can't take the time to care. Two left. He has no gun left. His sword is buried in the heart of one of the assailants.

It's instinct. Pure instinct, and desperation, and fear, and rage. He shouldn't be able to do this. His Grace is gone, long gone, but the soul left in its place is not entirely human either, and _remembers_. With a violent flick of his wrist and a surge of _will_ , Castiel flings one of the creatures upwards, impaling it on the hanging limestone stalactites. The throbbing in his skull peaks, dropping him to his knees again, blood running freely from his nose, and he watches Sam kill the last as if from a great distance.

They're both breathing raggedly when Castiel speaks, attempting to rise once again, fist wrapping around the blood-covered phone as he thrusts it outwards at Sam. "Dean. Dean needs us."

Sam hauls Castiel up by his forearm, without taking the phone, still at arm's length. In the glint of his flashlight below, Castiel can see the too-apparent whites of his eyes, and the fear in him. "Cas, what the hell. . ."

" _Dean_." Castiel repeats, making towards the exit, and Sam takes the phone from him finally, keeping the light up for them to see their route. He hisses profanity under his breath but takes the lead again. "We're going to talk about this." It's a promise, for later, and Castiel can't care. He doesn't care about talking, about whether or not either of them understand, his entire world has narrowed down to a single focus, and he grabs his sword and his flashlight simply with those concepts in mind. The flashlight will help him leave.

The sword will allow him revenge, if Dean Winchester has been killed.

 _You have just the one life_.

He can't lose him.

When the mutilated creature above slides down the point of the rocks, hitting the ground with a wet thud, they both turn back at the keening. Something in there is still alive.

It's a split second decision, Castiel reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrawing the small bottle of lighter fluid that was intended for salting and burning spirits. "Move, Sam."

It's all around them. An ingredient in bombs. In gunpowder. One of the most flammable substances in the natural world, and they are wading in it.

Guano _burns_.

As they leave the cave, they can hear the screams fade.


	9. Chapter 9

The PISA intern just barely recognizes Castiel, when he and Sam come jogging up to the outside door. He has to talk fast when, barely slowing, the other man pushes him gently to the side from where he's stepped in front of him. Fortunately the intern's first words are enough to catch their attention. "Your brother…"

"What about Dean? Where is he?" Sam's normally friendly face turns dangerous as he demands answers. Sam and Cas both look like they've been mud fighting in a barbeque pit, and they smell like it was a septic pit instead, but it's the expressions beneath the muck and the blood that are chilling.

"Mackey told me to make sure you get your things…"

"Where is Dean Winchester?" growls Castiel, threateningly.

"…he said not to let you go upstairs cause you don't want to go until the police are gone," the young man stammers, trying to stick to the information given to him and feeling more frightened by their darkening glowers by the moment. "We grabbed your duffels from the motel. For that matter, we emptied the rooms for you in case the police go looking. Most of your stuff's in the Impala over there. Oh, here's the other, uh, the hurt guy's phone. Here's your key," His nervousness has the intern giving information in the wrong order and stuttering, and Sam, who recognizes the problem pulls on a commanding demeanor and starts asking questions that can be answered simply.

Is Dean alive? Yes. Was he injured? Yes. How badly? Bad. Was it Rivera? Yes. Is Rivera in custody? No. Which hospital is Dean at? Mackey knows. Where is Mackey? With the police upstairs.

"Mackey said to tell you to use the conference room and restroom down here to wash up, and that he'll be in to see you and lead you to the hospital as soon as he can get rid of the police," by then the young man has led them inside the building to the restrooms where their duffels wait. It's apparent the moment they look in the mirror that they'd draw attention appearing _anywhere_ until they were cleaned up, and only delay getting to Dean longer by being arrested.

Blood and muck swirls down the bathroom sink as both men give a cursory scrub-down to their faces and hands and then change clothes, quickly, without discussion, as if they are racing the clock. Both aware that it's possible they _are_. Mackey still hasn't emerged from questioning with the police, and so they're led back to the conference room, where with a shaking hand the young intern clicks the mouse to begin a video on the screen before them.

"I. . . I started filming it, when the fight started. I thought maybe we could use it as evidence, or maybe that he'd stop if he knew he was on camera. I don't. . ."

The first slur, voices reedy through the computer speaker, makes him flinch and step away. Cas and Sam become deadly quiet, both at the verbal and vicious physical assaults, each winces with every kick as Rivera aims squarely at Dean's limp body again and again. Mackey shows up toward the end of the video, grimacing to see the violence on the computer screen. "The police are considering it a hate crime," Mackey tells the two Hunters, the old man looks at the puzzled face of the young giant in front of him. "Because of all the homophobic ranting."

Mackey can see how his words affect them. With a stricken look, Sam reaches out and clicks off the screen as if he can belatedly preserve his brother's dignity, to keep them from seeing the scene again and again. Castiel's hands bunch into fists at his side and he turns away from them, drawing a slow breath that betrays his devastation in the shuddering exhale.

They're barely holding it together as Mackey introduces himself to John Winchester's youngest, finally, reaching out his hand toward this towering man whose expression seems hardened and ageless. Mackey says he is sorry to meet Sam in these circumstances, but everything these last three days seems to have happened too quickly. Mackey isn't used to it, and wonders if Hunters' lives are always at such a hectic pace. He fills them both in on why Dean was at the PISA building, telling them everything that Dean said he had found out, and handing them Rivera's journal.

"Enough. We need to get to Dean." It's Castiel's voice, and he turns back to them again. The composure is a lie, the already thin strand of patience has worn away. Mackey is a good man, who worked to save Dean, but every moment they linger is a moment they don't know what's happening to Dean, and neither can tolerate it.

With a look at the two men before him, Mackey nods in understanding, drawing his keys from his pockets. "Alright. Follow me."

The Trauma Center at University Hospital in San Antonio prides itself as one of the few Level I centers in the state. Their workers are trained professionals who thrive on the challenge of stabilizing the worse injuries in thirty-five counties.

One trauma team has its hands full of that challenge today as what appears to be a previously injured, extremely ill man who has been badly beaten arrives in an ambulance. It's like they are dealing with layers of damage that they have no answers for because the battered man was unaccompanied, has no identification, and is unconscious. Complicating matters further, his temperature is 104.7, seemingly from badly infected animal bites on his arm. He is wearing a leg brace and his knee is swollen.

They quickly strip him and unstrap the leg brace which is bent and digging into the leg. The emergency room doctor orders blood work, urinalysis, CAT scans, X-rays and ultrasounds as triage continues. A trauma surgeon joins them. Bleeding from a head wound leads to a skull fracture; some swelling but no splintering of the bone means that can wait. Besides external bruises and swelling, he has internal injuries, even before the results are in they doctors can see the internal swelling. He has at least one broken rib which has punctured a lung, three other ribs are cracked. Surgery is required to reposition the rib. He has contusions to his spleen, kidney and liver, and they will have to check for any ruptures and stop the internal bleeding.

With all the older injuries made apparent by the tests, they wonder if they are dealing with a military man or a veteran. They prep this John Doe for surgery and start him on fluids and intravenous antibiotics, hoping when he wakes up – if he wakes up – he'll be able to supply some answers.

Dean is still in surgery when Mackey and the Hunters arrive at the hospital. The emergency room doctor escorts them to the surgery waiting area and gives them an update, stressing that they won't know the full extent of the head trauma until they can assess him, and they can't do that until he is conscious. He refuses to offer a prognosis, saying that the fever and head injuries are the two variables, that the trauma team will have the other injuries taken care of in a few hours with the surgeries.

A hospital insurance clerk arrives to get information from the family, reminding Sam that Bobby needs to be told. Sam tackles the paperwork, handing his phone to Cas for him to call Bobby, and he just. . . _can't_. He is sitting here, useless, surrounded by pain and chaos and scurrying medical teams and Castiel is supposed to be able to _fix_ this and he _can't._ Sam glances up when Castiel stands, palming the offered phone, but nods in understanding. However Castiel thought of it. . . that was a very _human_ reaction. Sam hated waiting rooms too.

The hospital chapel is a featureless, soulless room—too politically correct to be anything but a quiet, empty room with low pews and no religious iconography, allowing the desperate people of the waiting room somewhere to reflect regardless of their religion or denomination. There is no pull, here, to enter. Instead, he steps through the next door into the long, narrow courtyard tucked between the ER and the rest of the hospital. _Serenity Garden_. Low stone benches look out over carefully maintained shrubs, rock gardens, small flowers native to South Texas.

He can't wander far. He won't. A shout out of the door to him would bring him back, and he makes sure Sam sees him go so that he won't be forgotten as he tries to find an area where he can sit and not feel confined. _Keep breathing_ , he reminds himself, because every inhalation feels forced. The weight of the phone in his hand reminds him of his purpose, and he brushes his finger across the edge of the screen to clear off the remaining blood that Sam's hasty swipe missed. He's not sure what he is going to say to Bobby Singer, but he has seen this man be a better father to the Winchesters than their biological father ever was.

Bobby thinks it's Sam calling back because his brother has told him too. "What the hell's up with your brother," he asks in lieu of a greeting. "He was sounding like a mixed-up blonde bimbo this morning."

"Dean is in the hospital. Sam is filling out paperwork."

Bobby's words becomes more formal when he understands that it is Castiel, not one of his adopted sons, on the phone. "Just tell me everything."

Castiel's voice is forced and leaden at first, his guilt over the Grigori spawn cutting him deeply, his concern over Dean causing him anguish. His voice gains in volume and anger as he continues. He relates the details of Sam's and his confrontation with the spawn; then he explains how Dean, although he was supposed to have a quiet day, had managed to find Rivera's journal and have a physical confrontation with the hunter. He tells Bobby that Dean is in surgery, listing the injuries the doctor has revealed.

"Dean Winchester was sick this morning, feverish, but said nothing to either his brother or to me. His secretive nature has complicated his injuries." Anger makes Castiel's voice louder, and Bobby interrupts.

"What would you have done if Dean told you he was sick?" he snaps. "Not gone? Allowed others to be murdered by the monsters? Don't you think Dean _knew_ that? Now, I admit he should have taken it easy, but it sounds to me like, for a change, Dean wasn't _looking_ for trouble. Just his luck that it found him anyway. Now, calm down and tell me who really has you riled besides yourself and Dean."

 _No wonder the Winchesters hold Robert Singer in their hearts so fondly_ , Castiel muses. _He has cut through the confusing emotions clouding my mind._

"I want to kill Rivera." Castiel's gravelly voice leaves no room to imagine that he means this metaphorically. "I want to break his ribs and pound them into his lungs. I want to crush his head beneath my boots…."

"But you know you can't because we are Hunters, not vigilantes, not murderers. Right, Castiel?" There's an edge to the question, the voice of a man who watched Castiel spiral without being blinded by the affection his boys held for the angel. "You know we walk a fine line and crossing it makes you as evil as the things we hunt? You know that Dean and Sam never even went after Roy and Walt, the two Hunters who shot them, right?" Bobby is being patient; he's never been a big fan of the angel, but he's willing to accept that Cas is important to the boys and a Hunter. Both things make Castiel, the man, part of his extended family. He lets the silence at the end of his questions work. Makes the former angel think.

"Is he not as evil as some of the other monsters we kill?" Castiel finally asks, and Bobby knows this is a point every Hunter faces sometime in his career. There isn't an official school for Hunters, but those who ignore the purpose and ethics aren't welcomed by the community. Hunters kill monsters and those that use the supernatural to commit evil. They leave evil _men_ to law enforcement. "The boys will tell you the same as I have," Bobby says softly but with certainty. The Winchester boys are _heroes_.

When Castiel hangs up he continues to sit in the garden, trying to allow the quiet to calm him, knowing that Bobby is right and he cannot exact revenge on Ruben Rivera. He is trembling as he looks to the sky as he prays. "Father, brothers, I know what I've done. I'm not worthy of any consideration. I have fallen so far, but, please . . . don't test me so far this soon. I'm struggling to live this mortal life without losing my purpose, without becoming something counter to the nature for which I was created. Please, help me. Please do not allow Dean to die. I am not ready to do this without him."

Silence answers him, in his mind and in the solitude of the garden. Bowing his head, Castiel closes his eyes, swallows his pride, and quietly pleads for something he should never have had in the first place, until Sam calls for him.

Later, Castiel and Sam sit side by side next to Dean's bed in ICU. They listen to the mechanical beeps and whoosh of squeezed air from the machines that are monitoring Dean's vital signs, pumping fluids and medication into him, and working his lungs to keep him alive. It has been seven hours since Dean was brought into the hospital. The doctors say the surgery went well. The fever has been going down, 102.3 at the last check. The antibiotics they are using will defeat the infection, rest and care will heal the rest of his injuries – six weeks is the recommendation, and neither Sam nor Cas doubts they will make him take that time. Even after that, his knee will require physical therapy to heal completely. The real issue - how badly has his head been injured. He could be facing brain damage, loss of memory or motor skills. The doctors don't know because Dean still has not regained consciousness.

What they can see of Dean looks bruised. He has bandages on his head, his arm, over the surgical incision on his abdomen; his leg has been cast with a slight bend in the knee to make him unable to put weight on it. _It's as though the doctors knew him well enough to know they would have to force him to stay off the leg_ , thinks Sam. _Maybe how badly he mangled the brace was a clue._

Sam sighs loudly enough that Cas breaks away from his meditative pose to ask him what is wrong. "I've been worrying about Dean for weeks, Cas. I thought he had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I thought he was headed for some kind of mental breakdown, and now – it's that bastard Rivera's words. I just don't know if he's going to be okay when he wakes up, I mean even if he's going to recover physically, you know."

Castiel's blue eyes are intense as he peers at Sam, and his words are slow and confused. "I don't understand what you're saying, Sam. My biggest concern is the head injury. I have not even thought of what Dean's emotional state might be. Why is this a concern?"

With a sad smile and a shake of his head, Sam continues. "Cas, you've been good for Dean. Yeah, he's still drinking too much and not eating right, but he's also _happier_ than I've seen him in a long time. He's smiling and joking again. I just. . . I'm not afraid anymore that I'm going to walk into a motel room and find that he's eaten a bullet."

Sam can see what he is saying is shaking the angel, but he feels like he has to finish. "I think he was just getting comfortable with it, coming to figure out he was wrong about what being in a relationship with another guy might be like. Our dad was pretty vocal about homosexuality, called it wrong, called it. . . a lot of things." Raking a hand through his hair, fingers tangling in the burned and ragged ends, he puffs his breath out quietly, looking at his brother. "I mean. . . Cas, you two've been dancing around each other for _years_ and he just started to get over it, and he still won't even talk about it with _me_. And he just got his ass kicked by someone while being called something he hasn't even let himself say out loud. He didn't even fight it. He _fought_ , but he never argued."

Castiel freezes, his hand tucked around the edge of the bandage on Dean's hand still, blue eyes flicking up to the unconscious man's face. This man, who offered an insult to _everyone,_ hadn't given a single retort. Perhaps because, deep down, he believed it of himself.

He might lose Dean even if his friend pulls through this beating alive and without brain damage - Sam is attempting to steel him for that fact. The walls close in on him so swiftly that he can't move. He's being crushed, he _is_ crushed, and he can't focus. Selfish. He's selfish, and he knows that he needs this, needs Dean. If Dean wakes from this and turns away from the only comfort the fallen angel has found in this life, he wonders if it'll be him eating a bullet. Everything. He's given up everything to get here, and now 'here' is everything, this life with Dean and with Sam. Co-dependent, the boys had been called, and now he's tied into that and maybe he has been for years.

Sam's wide hazel eyes are fixed on him, and he knows he's panicking when the younger man speaks and he doesn't hear it. Sam's trying to find something to help Cas deal with what looks like a anxiety attack, then he hears that flutter of wings that at one time meant Castiel had arrived.

"Oh, pipe down already, Cassy. You're giving me a headache."


	10. Chapter 10

"Cassy, Cassy, Cassy. You make a truly _terrible_ human. And you smell like a cesspit." Pausing to take a sip from a glass of champagne, the angel before them swings his gaze from the stiffened spine of his brother to the hopeful gaze of the hairless ape on the opposite side of the hospital bed that he was currently choosing to ignore. "You reek too." He offers, as if to reassure Sam that he wasn't being overlooked.

"Balthazar." Sam responds, and it sounds like a plea, like a welcome, to which the man tucks one foot behind the other, offering a mocking half-bow.

"In the flesh. Flesh which should currently be somewhere in Monte Carlo and entwined with two truly beautiful blondes and absolutely nowhere near the three of you. Orders, you know." As if in deliberate, direct contradiction of those orders, Balthazar leans comfortably against the wall, arm crossing his chest, other gesturing with his champagne flute. "Don't mind me. Carry on. I believe Cassy was in the middle of some sort of mental breakdown and you were uselessly fluttering your hands at him."

"Aren't you here to heal Dean?" Sam asks, glancing from his brother, chest rising and falling with the machines, to Balthazar. It's Castiel that answers in his low rumble, speaking for the first time since Balthazar's arrival, head bowed and shoulders still tense and knotted.

"He can't."

"Aah, he speaks." As Castiel turns to face him, Balthazar waggles his fingers on the glass in a wave. "Good to know you're listening. Oh, terrible plan of course. We're fighting a war, and you're eavesdropping on it when both sides in theory already want you dead. As the supposed tactician of us, far be it from me to question your judgment on that . . . particularly as questioning you has gone so well for me in the past." Castiel winces, chin ducking down. ". . . I suppose just as well for now, though."

"Cas. . .?" Sam turns towards his brother's angel, a question in his eyes, but Castiel doesn't answer him. There seems to be a conversation going on that he's not part of, in the slight cant of Castiel's head, his pain-filled gaze, even Balthazar's slow sip of the champagne, rolling the edge of the glass across his lips. "Look, my brother's been beaten to a pulp and is dying here, if you think I'm going to. . ."

" _My_ brother has mutilated himself physically and spiritually, nearly killed himself several times, and is floundering around in the mud pretending to be one of _you_. Oh, and he _murdered_ me last time I saw him, because I was trying to help _you_. A little perspective please." Balthazar's voice is snappish, his eyes fixed on Castiel, who rises to his feet slowly now, turning to look at his brother.

Balthazar doubts that Castiel has taken a look at himself, really categorized the changes that have taken place in him over the last year. He, of course, can see it all. He's spent most of eternity at Castiel's side, his brother and his friend, and looking at him he can't help but notice every minute and massive change in the broken creature by the bedside.

Because he is _broken_.

Castiel once glowed with purpose, his voice in the minds of his angels steady and unshaking, and his presence was stolid, serious. Younger, more carefree, Balthazar had leaned on the rock that was his older brother, his garrison commander, perhaps more than any of them after Anna left them. He knew that allowing Castiel to think him dead when he slipped Heaven's confinement was cruel: Cassy cared, and cared deeply, about all of the angels under his command and Balthazar was the closest of his brothers.

It's more than the dark circles beneath his brother's eyes, or the thin beard his neglect of shaving over the past week has left him with. It's more than the fact that he has so settled into this vessel that it has _become_ him, and he has draped himself in flannel and denim, dirt under his nails and the scars that Balthazar can see on his human body and _feel_ on his spirit. Castiel's soul is a bleeding, scarred and mutilated thing – so much less than he used to be. Some of the scars are old ones, he knows. Castiel was battered when they last saw each other as well, though Balthazar had tried to ignore the signs of madness.

Some of the damage on his spirit looks as if it'll keep bleeding for eternity, an uncauterized tear where an angel's Grace used to be.

The last soul he saw with near this damage had just been plucked from the pits of hell.

"You're an idiot." Balthazar offers finally, the summary of his scrutiny, shaking his head slightly as he turns his gaze back on the impatient figure of Sam. "I'm not here to heal your brother. Orders. Again. Cassy managed to make a spectacle of bringing me back, and 'I'd rather be elsewhere' doesn't work with the new management in Heaven. Sadly, the answer I got was 'suck it up, buttercup' and put back to work. Our elder brother is charming." Rolling his eyes, Balthazar pushes off of the wall, setting his empty champagne flute down amongst medical equipment and walking past Castiel.

"Meanwhile, the new orders from Heaven are not to save you lot. You're all dependent on divine intervention now. Used to one of us coming at your beck and call, ever since my idiot brother became infatuated enough to be your pet angel."

"Balthazar. . ." Castiel begins, but stops when his younger brother turns to him, a finger raised warningly. He could stop the conversation with that gesture, force them to comply, but for now it's simply a pointed finger and a glare. Castiel's eyes narrow minutely, fixed on that hand.

"Don't argue. You don't get to argue with me, Cassy." Turning back to Dean, Balthazar continues as if he'd never been interrupted. "Considering we're in the middle of a war. . . again. . . and we've just changed up the teams and the leadership and the general tactics. . . as Castiel _knows_ because he's an eavesdropping self-torturing prat who's liquefying his brain trying to keep tabs on us. . ." Castiel shoots a strangely guilty look at Dean and then up at Sam and looks away again before Sam can lock eyes with him for long. ". . .right now those of us with any pull whatsoever can't afford to put a toe out of line on orders and risk breaking the ranks again. So. I'm not here to save your brother."

Again, in almost direct contradiction to his words, Balthazar acts. Color suffuses Dean's face again, and he inhales once sharply, coughing around the tubes helping him breathe until Sam releases him from them, a hand on his brother's shoulder. "The hell. . ." Dean grimaces, trying to sit up, and ends up falling back against the bed again with a glare at his still-injured leg and still-post-operative abdomen, unaware of the damage that _has_ been washed away with the touch. The infection, the concussion, the brain damage.

Castiel seems torn. . . his eyes snap towards Dean, but he leans slightly into the space between them, breathing in sharply, something vacant entering his expression for that moment.

His Grace. That was _his_ Grace. A small piece of his spirit, from the angel he'd resurrected using it, and it calls out to him with aching familiarity. Balthazar doesn't miss the moment the way Sam does. He turns his eyes on Castiel and watches him warily over his shoulder, as if expecting Castiel to attack him. To stab him in the back again. As if all of Heaven was expecting him to turn into the monster he could be, and start with some manner of parody of Sam Winchester's own slide, lapping the power and blood out of his brothers and sisters. They could see that he wasn't _whole_ without it.

They were missing the obvious. There were other things he wouldn't be whole without, too, now. His connection to these two boys chief among them, and being able to keep tabs on his distant brothers and sisters even at the expense of his headaches.

He's been with the Winchesters too long. His first urge is to roll his eyes, shaking his head slightly at his brother. Balthazar's lips twitch into a faint grin, the moment passing and tension dissipating as he looks back at Sam and Dean, letting Castiel join him at the edge of Dean's bed now as he begins speaking again.

"As I was saying. I'm not here to save him. I'm here because I'm arrogant and smug and self-serving. . ." he sounds like he's quoting, and Castiel sighs quietly. ". . . and I have something to say to your brother that wouldn't be understood if he were doing his best impersonation of a vegetable."

Dean's watching him with confusion and wariness in his green eyes, looking from Sam, to Cas, and back to Balthazar. "Yeah, and what's that?" His voice is rough, hoarse, but it's _Dean_ and lucid and Castiel lets his breath out quietly, taking his seat again and curling his hand around Dean's once more, half afraid Dean will pull away, head bowed over their linked hands.

He should have been more concerned with what Balthazar was going to say.

"I told you so." He offers it with all the maturity of a five year old, jerking his head at Castiel beside him. "I bloody well called it. When I tell you my brother's in love with you, you should _listen_ to me, you ass."

Balthazar knew _his_ brother, nearly as well as the Winchesters did their own. Castiel glares up at him through his lashes without raising his head. "Balthazar. . ." He manages to make the name a warning, dry-roasted voice low and dark, and Balthazar smirks cheekily while completely ignoring him, and then Castiel _can't_ force words out, and he glares instead silently, struck mute by the will of his own former Grace. The privilege of power: Balthazar has never had the upper hand in that before with Castiel, and intends to press the advantage.

(Sam can almost empathize. Dean is conscious, and consequently he's willing to forgive the angel heckling them.)

"I am obeying my orders like the good little soldier I'm supposed to be. . . more or less. . . but understand me this time: you've yanked one of the few members of my family I could tolerate from Heaven. If you break him further, no orders from Gabby will stop me from . . . how would you so charmingly put it, do you prefer 'kick your ass,' 'smite you,' or 'a world of hurt?' I'm generally flexible on the content of the threat as long as you understand me." Balthazar flicks his hand dismissively, and Castiel lets out a low breath, like he was being released from a gag, and his scowl at his brother deepens at the threats to Dean.

"Dude, are you calling the Trickster, the frikkin' Archangel, _Gabby?_ . . .That's ballsy. I like it."

No. Dean wasn't having this conversation with Castiel's brother any more than he was with his own, particularly not in a hospital bed and drugged up and after the mess he'd just gone through. He was still a wreck. But he tightens his fingers around Castiel's hand for a moment, squeezing gently without looking at the other man, as if proving a point to Balthazar and Sam with their answers.

"Hey. Cas. You okay, buddy?"

It's such a small gesture to carry with it so much hope. A simple press of fingers, without drawing away, but Castiel breathes easier, closing his eyes as he nods, and his voice is steady, low and deep. "I'm fine. And you, Dean? Are. . .?"

"I'm okay." Or he would be.

There's a beat, where Sam and Balthazar both seem to be waiting for something else. Instead, Dean turns a raised eyebrow on the pair of younger brothers in the room. "Look. See? We're okay. Now stop hovering, it's annoying."

This was their idea of 'talking.' It got the point across between them, as infuriating as it apparently was to witness. Sam huffs and Balthazar shakes his head, stepping back until Castiel reaches his free hand out, clasping his arm lightly. "Thank you."

For Dean. For this unapproved miracle. For his forgiveness and even his posturing. Balthazar scoffs. "Just keep your nose clean, Cassy. I never want to have to hunt you."

He's gone before anyone can respond.

Sam snorts, shaking his head at the pair of them as he gently squeezes his brother's shoulder and then paces away for the door. "I need a shower. I'll leave you two here to _talk_."

Castiel swallows heavily, raising his eyes from Dean's hand in his to watch Sam leave, before turning to meet the gaze fixed on him from the bed, green as summer and questioning. "We saw the video of the attack. What he said, Dean. . ."

So it was on video. Dean grimaces, eyes closing, and twitches one shoulder in a slight shrug. "Cas. . . If you can get over a couple of millennia of being told it's a sin to sleep with humans, I'll get over thirty years of being told it's sick to sleep with a guy. Deal?"

And that was the dilemma, wasn't it? This entire case, it seemed to stack against them, to play on their insecurities. . . Dean wasn't the only one who could have run. He's spent this entire time trying to understand what his Father wanted from him, if it was a test or a blatant demonstration of his sin. It would still haunt him, and he assumed to some extent this would still follow Dean.

The choice was _both_ of theirs on how they would handle it.

Unseen by Dean, Castiel's lips quirk into his faint smile, and he leans over his friend, pressing a light, fleeting kiss to his lips and resting his forehead against the bandages on Dean's. "Deal."

Six days later, Dean is released from the hospital. He has a list of exercises for his leg, prohibitions on what he can lift and the amount of exercise he may do, two prescriptions, crutches, and the admiration of most of the nursing staff. The doctors congratulate themselves on his recovery.

His departure doesn't go as smoothly as he would like – there're a few small issues, like just who was going to ride in the wheelchair Sam is pushing. "No way, Dude. I can't sit in that. There's no way I can bend my leg for it; sure can't have it sticking out poking people and getting caught in doors…or the elevator door."

"Dean, get in the frikkin' chair. It's hospital policy. Quit being a baby about it." Sam wonders if the hospital could save Dean again if he has to kill him before he even gets him out of the hospital. "Cas, _you_ tell him."

Castiel lifts his eyebrow at Sam, as though asking whether Sam actually thought _that_ would work. But they work it out, allowing the hardheaded one to try walking out on his crutches, and neither of them smirking too badly when Dean has to sit down by the time they reach the elevators. Only Balthazar can get away with an "I told you so." _They_ have to live with him.

Once they reach the Impala, Sam watches as Cas climbs into the backseat with Dean - he sighs, but doesn't even argue about not acting like a chauffeur. Through the drive, Dean is lying down in the back with his head propped on a pillow across Castiel's thighs, Cas almost absentmindedly massaging Dean's scalp and running his fingers through his hair. It's just as comforting to _him_ as to the sleeping Winchester throughout the trip. Dean carries a spark of Castiel's former Grace as well, imbued the moment he drew him out of hell and reinforced each and every time he healed him since.

Dean has always felt like a missing piece of himself. Now more than ever, and well beyond what the Grace would explain.

Narrow roads barely two-lanes wide snake alongside the rivers and up and down steep boulder-strewn hills; houses are seen only at a distance, Mesquite and Cedar provide most of the tree scape with the occasional Live Oak spreading out like it won a battle for some of the land in this area called Texas Hill Country. Texans may have "Friendship" as their motto, but here they like to put some distance between themselves and their neighbors. The Impala crosses Cypress-lined rivers, the Guadalupe and the Pedernales; passes rocky goat-filled pastures and fields of wild cactus and spear grass. The turn off from the Farm Road to the County Road is hard to spot, and the new passage is just one level up from a dirt path, its bridges so narrow only one car could pass at a time, and its low water crossings hinting of flash flooding if the weather turns against them. With only a few white clouds in such a brilliant blue sky, that doesn't seem likely.

Only two hours away from one of the country's largest cities and the area looks untouched except for wire fences set back from the road. Mackey has a hunting parcel down this road, 200 acres of land with a year-round creek flowing through it, plenty of wild life, and no neighbors for miles; and he is pleased to let the Winchesters and Castiel use it to give Dean a week of recuperation after his hospital stay. More than pleased, Mackey insisted they use it and had his housekeeper stock it with food and drinks for their stay.

Enjoying the peacefulness of the drive, how few other cars are on the road, Sam is being only mildly obnoxious with his "Driver Picks the Music" selections, and he keeps the volume low as Snow Patrol exhorts their listeners to open their eyes. Glancing in the rearview mirror at the couple, he thinks maybe back roads like this one would be a good place to teach their newest partner how to drive. He wonders what type of music Castiel will insist on playing when he gets behind the wheel, or if the fallen angel will drive in the silence that has become so characteristic of him since his fall from grace.

Mackey offered the use of the cabin as a bonus, especially when the three men told him they had no intention of submitting a bill for their services. However, Mackey had insisted on paying for the motel during the rest of their stay; he also took up collections for Sam from the students attending the basic seminars for PISA that he had convinced the young Hunter to teach, "How to Use Internet Research to Identify Grave Sites," "Salting and Burning 101," and the most popular, "Guarding your Home from Malevolent Spirits." Sam enjoyed teaching the two-hour seminars for two reasons, he's pleased that these people seem willing to handle some of the smaller problems that may crop up in their haunted city themselves and he enjoyed earning some honest pay, and found himself torn when Mackey offered him a job.

They all need a break from the stresses that have pursued them relentlessly for years. Cas was right that the symptoms of PTSD, the nightmares, flashbacks, nervousness and drinking apply to Sam as well – and, surprisingly, even more so to the fallen angel than to Dean. His former barfly older brother has been the most enthusiastic about "getting away from it all." The road becomes bumpier, jarring them all to full awareness, as Sam turns onto the long drive that leads to the hunting cabin.

The outside of the Mackey's hunting cabin is white Texas limestone with a metal roof and knotty Cedar posts holding up a veranda. It's bigger than the guys expected, nicer than the word cabin suggests. Inside is even better. The hunting cabin is a spacious two bedroom, two bath, modern home with all the amenities and labeled casseroles in the freezer. Sam is happily surprised to find out that the satellite hookup includes cable television and wireless internet, and the living room has several full bookshelves: the hunting lodge of a professor who likely used the space to write more than anything.

Maybe they really _will_ get a chance to relax.

The next morning, when Sam is lured from his room by the smell of coffee and bacon, he is greeted by a Dean who is hobbling around the kitchen making eggs to order to go with the bacon, toast, and orange juice he has already set at the table. Sam can't make any domesticity comments about it, either: Dean's been slapping together vaguely passable meals from scraps since he was old enough to reach the stove, but they rarely have a kitchen. "Most important meal of the day, Sammy. How do you want them? Fried? Scrambled? I can't do omelet, and I sure as hell can't do egg white omelet."

Sam settles for scrambled and asks whether Castiel will be joining them. Cracking the eggs into a bowl, Dean attacks them with a fork, and Sam chortles quietly at how his brother can make breakfast look violent. "I fed him already. He's off communing with nature, or praying, or something. I wanted _us_ to have some time, Sam. Ask your questions – but this is a one-shot deal, so ask now, or – what's that saying 'or forever hold your peace'?"

"You know that's from a wedding ceremony, Dean? You trying to tell me something?" The eggs hiss as they're poured into the pre-heated pan, and Dean rolls his eyes at the question, too busy making sure they don't burn to flick Sam off.

"I'm trying to tell you that I am not shutting you out. You've been tippy-toeing around me like I've grown a third head ever since Rivera handed me my ass on a platter, and as far as I know, I haven't. So, here I am, Sammy. Just ask me what the hell you want to know and let's get this over with – You've got five minutes. Truth or dare." Sam snorts. Well, at least with that time limit he's convinced this really is his brother and not some kind of shapeshifter.

"Okay, first, how are you handling the names Rivera called you?"

"Ouch, that's straight to the point isn't it? Okay - truth." Dean shrugs his shoulder. "He didn't say anything I hadn't already said to myself since I first started noticing Cas that way. How about you, Sammy? Does it hurt you to know that when some people find out, that's the kinda shit they're gonna spew about it?"

"Dean, I couldn't care less what other people have to say about it. Cas is my friend. You're my _brother_."

Dean tries to read Sam's eyes to see if he really is okay with it, or just putting on a show, and eventually he shrugs. "I'm more upset I let that idiot sneak up on me. I plead illness." Dean adds without further prompting. By Sam's eye roll Dean can tell that Sam thinks that's not the main consideration. "Besides, I figure I'm bisexual or hetero-flexible if we going for labels. If you steal my magazines, I'm gonna punch you in the nose."

Sam laughs, then takes a minute to word his next question. "Tick, tick, tick," goads his brother.

"Dean, Cas used telekinesis against the Grigori-spawn, Balthazar says he's listening in to angel radio, and I thought he really _was_ going to try to find Rivera and murder him," Sam blurts.

"Is there a question there, little brother?"

"What are we going to do if Castiel goes off the deep end, Dean? What if he becomes the monster he's always saying he is?"

Dean takes a sharp breath in, and after a moment he looks away, scraping Sam's eggs out of the pan and dumping them onto a plate for him. "I don't know, Sammy. I just don't know. I figure any one of us could go off the rails. I guess we're all just going to have to help each other stay human. I'm not ignoring it . .. Can that be enough of an answer for now?"

"Yeah, Dean. Just one last question. You've been drinking and Castiel has been popping more pain pills than you. Can you make sure this doesn't become a problem?"

"I can try to drink less. Will that make you feel better?" Dean looks torn, and he slides the plate in front of his brother, leaning against the counter now to take his weight off the crutches for a moment. "That's truth, Sammy. As for Cas… I don't own him, Sam. I don't control him. He's getting massive headaches from being tuned in to everything going on in Heaven. I guess the best I can do is not refill my prescriptions. Not keep it around so much. Okay? … We good now, Oprah moment over?" Dean asks.

"We could hug it out," Sam smirks.

"Too gay for me," Dean laughs, doing the best imitation of strutting he can do on crutches as he heads outside to find Cas. "Get the dishes, bitch." He calls back as the screen door slams shut.

"Jerk," Sammy sputters.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors note: Thank you readers, thank you for sticking with it, for the favs, and especially thank you to those who took the time to respond. I was terribly nervous about trying this – my first ever fiction nevermind my first ever fanfiction – and I needed the feedback to keep trying. Many, many thanks to my co-authoress without whom not a word would have been posted. With MummyMollyWeasley's encouragement and help, I have now written fight scenes, dialogue that sounds a lot better than quotes, – and, yes, she even convinced me that Dean would give in to his feelings for Cas and then be stubborn enough to not give him up, so she can have her evil laugh. I am determined also to try to write a brief interlude for Dean and Castiel, and I will try to not let her angst all over it. – mrstserc
> 
> Co-Author's Response to the Author's Note: I didn't touch this one. Nada. Nothing. She'll be shocked to see it. But I wanted to prove that I wouldn't tarnish her happily ever after (THIS TIME! Mwahahaha). Currently my hardworking co-author is scoffing at me because she can hear me typing onto her afterwards, and so I'm typing even more to bother her. 
> 
> . . . Did I mention my sadistic sense of humor isn't just in written form?
> 
> Don't forget to check out my profile for "Before the Fall," "Afterwards" and "Incarceration," also all in this 'Verse. Meanwhile, we'll be back with more soon. Love to you all, see you next fic! – Mummy

It is so peaceful out in the Hill Country, so open and natural. Castiel wants to spend as much time as possible just being in it and allowing the peace of his Father's masterpiece to wash away some of the stain on his spirit. He heads out right after breakfast, following the quiet sounds of swift water flowing over rock, and he scrambles down onto a solid rock ledge about 10 feet down a cliff above the spring-fed stream on Mackey's property.

Even at the beginning of November, the morning temperature warms to a soothing 70 degrees as the angel settles there, gazing up at the branches of Cypress trees so tall and wide that they soar above the cliff from where their roots dip into the cool running water. His eyes, the same clear blue as the Texas sky, lazily watch a family of Red-tailed hawks circle in a hunting pattern.

There's a slight scuffling sound above him and Castiel stands up to watch as Dean carefully drops his crutches on the ground and eases his legs over the drop off. "Want me to go?" Dean asks quietly, not wanting to make his friend feel smothered.

Cas gives a small head shake and reaches his arms to ease the younger man down onto the ledge, allowing his lover's lean body to skim over his own gently - and enjoying the soft gasp he startles as he tightens his grip when he can reach Dean's lips, softly pressing a kiss before settling the taller man into a sitting position on the hard ledge. Cas feels even more peaceful now, as he lies back cushioning his head on Dean's good right thigh to resume his bird watching. It is Dean's turn to nurture, and he combs his fingers contentedly through Cas's dark waves.

Time must pass, but neither really cares right now; they are content just being there in contact with the other until the sun is directly overhead and the mild weather starts to feel too warm.

"Might be more difficult to get me out of here," Dean chuckles, as Cas stands and pulls Dean upright.

Fortunately for them, Sam has grown bored inside and hears them, heading over and taking one of Dean's arms as Cas scrambles up and takes the other to lift him back to the top of the cliff. Sam holds his brother upright and hands him his crutches so the three can head back toward the cabin.

"What were you doing down there," Sam asks.

"Talking," Cas replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on Some Sin For Nothing! Thank you all for reading, and we hope you enjoyed! Our goal is to make this as close to episodic as you can get, staying true to the characters and themes and will a fully formed plot and case, and without shunting any of these characters to the backburner: I always want my stories to recognize that just because there's shipping (I am an unrepentant Destiel fangirl, now) doesn't mean we have to forget how important Sam is to the dynamic either.


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